An Inconvenient Marriage
by The Art of Suicide
Summary: "Fairytales were real. So what if the bad guy won every once in a while? Most villains were misunderstood." This is an archived roleplay between GuideBetelgeuse and TheArtOfSuicide. It will likely never have a clean, concise ending. Proceed at your own risk and please read the author's note at the beginning.
1. The Proposal

_Disclaimer: _I own nothing. I am but a penniless amateur, aiming to please the hungry masses and hopefully feed my own demons.

* * *

**IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE:** What follows is a copied-and-pasted tumblr roleplay between guidebetelgeuse(same as her tumblr tag) and myself(tumblr tag: xxx-strangeandunusual-xxx). She is playing as Betelgeuse, me as Lydia. Because of the nature of roleplay, the point of view changes often and you will see each event as it was perceived by our renditions of these characters. _Please be warned going in that this may never have a clean or concise ending as that is not the point of roleplay._

For those of you who have read my work before, please note that the Lydia I play here is nearly identical to Necromancer Lydia. You may also notice bits of writing that seem familiar. This is because I sometimes recycle parts from my fics for roleplay purposes. I apologize for the repetition of content, but roleplay is something I do for myself as a writing exercise, not something to entertain others. I am only posting this here so that I can have a comprehensive archive to look back on and reread easily rather than having to dig through tumblr.

With all this in mind, please enjoy!

Reminder that this was something that was meant to be fun, not judged. Therefore constructive criticism is not welcome.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

_Should she? _

No. Absolutely not. Never in a hundred million years. At least, that's what Mr. and Mrs. Maitland would say if she were to ask their opinions.

_Could she? _

That was yet to be seen. Sweat from anxiety for what she was about to do beaded in her palms and so she wiped the damp limbs off on her dress before splaying them flat on the cool cherry wood of her vanity's surface. Her reflection looked braver than she felt; brows set in a stubborn line, eyes hard and alert with resolve.

_Would she? _

Oh, yes. That much was certain. "Betelgeuse… Betelgeuse… _Betelgeuse_."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

The Maitlands. Who asked them anyway?! About anything?! Oh right, King Shit and his Shitty Idea Brigade, that's who. "Look nice and stupid" did they? Right. Good. Fucking great, Betelgeuse. You were so close….

It had been a number of years in that waiting room by the ghoul's measure. Though it's honestly hard to measure at all in that place - and if the Witch Doctor hadn't been called before him his head would probably be the size of a softball still. Fortunately a good shaking out helped. It could have been a good look right? That hurt, by the way, even though it made his shoulders massive…er, well, to him anyway. Juno's sentence had been deliberate and decisive - house arrest. For /way/ longer than was fair, too. Three hundred years in a crypt?! Fuck that. But here he was, sent to his room, sulking. Stewing. He'd already cut out the newspaper obit of the Maitlands and crossed their eyes out, and drawn shitty pictures of the Deetz's getting theirs in various fashion.

Except for Lydia. That made him the angriest - the most infuriated he had ever felt in his un-life. For days and nights, he paced the floor. Sometimes there'd be two of him. Sometimes he'd argue with the insects he scraped from the floor before biting their little heads off.

"She didn't even like you," would come the well-trod self-argument.

"Well maybe if you cleaned up a little nicer she would have."

"No, idiot. If we had been /faster/ …. we should have sent those _losers _to … to…. Saturn was a fuckin' vacation. We should have let them be _exorcized–_"

"Okay, no one could have predicted the wife on a sandworm." And then he'd slump in a chair, in his velvet bathrobe, and growl.

That girl, that girl, that girl. As was his custom when thinking hard, he lit a cigarette and tapped the old moldering armchair beneath him. He can't even find work, barred from contacting the newly deceased. Or anyone, in fact. The term 'restless dead' found a new meaning in the ghosts' heart. Some nights he'd curse for hours and beat on his ceiling, the ceiling of his crypt. It was misery, it was hell. But most of all, it was ….. lonely. But who did he need? Nobody, that's who!

He was in the middle of having a good scream session, sitting on his lavish and yet disintegrating coffin bed, clutching his 'Guide' hat to his head, right at the heart of a good rant at Juno and the unfair universe, "—AND LET ME OUUUUTTA HEEEEEERE!" in a whirling, pitched shriek, when he was yanked…no, _torn _from his oubliette. Someone…

Someone had said his name.

Someone had said his name three times.

And with that he found himself thrown directly from his imprisonment into Lydia's bedroom like a straight shot. He came from seemingly nowhere…maybe the mirror? Maybe simply the ceiling? But he came at great velocity, slamming straight downwards from that location, tumbling like a great mountain of crypt-dusty clothes and smoke from his somehow still-lit cigarette. It took the ghost a number of seconds to collect himself onto his butt.

"Woah," he said quite seriously, holding his hands out, his back still towards the girl. His nose twitched, and his face wrinkled. This place… _smelled _familiar. Really familiar. His lips curled to expose his stained teeth in a suspicious frown.

Slowly, the shock of greenish, moldy blond hair turned and caught sight of a face he thought he'd never see again. The grin that split his face was unmistakable, impish and gloatingly glorious - without missing a beat he offered, "Babe - ya miss me or what?"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V_**

As soon as the soft hiss of the last syllable of his name evaporated into the air, energy crackled through the atmosphere. The hair on the back on her neck stood on end and her spine hardened. Then, her vanity began to tremble. Her hairbrush and a bottle of perfume rattled over the wood until they could clatter to the floor. Clouds of black ink swirled across the mirror's surface, drowning out her reflection. It was time to move. Struck with a sense of deja vu, she scrambled out of the way in the nick of time, just as a heap of mold and stripes catapulted through her looking glass.

His entrance was not nearly as grand or intimidating as the last time she saw him, but Lydia was daunted all the same. Nearly two years had passed and yet he was untouched by time. She had no place being surprised by this, she knew, but that did nothing to lessen the surreal nature of the situation. Finally, jade eyes turned on her. They were just as wild and burning as she remembered them- and thankfully lacked the bite of malice she was expecting. When that horribly charming grin revealed his teeth and his whiskey-stained greeting scratched at her ears, her mind went blank. The speech she'd been mentally and vocally rehearsing for weeks fled, leaving her with nothing but blunt honesty and the gut impulse to tell him that;

"I didn't think you'd come."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

At that, up he goes! Quick, in a swift movement, he pops up from his indignant spot on the floor smoothly. His head ducks and those jade eyes flash…dangerously? It's unclear - the distance between Lydia and himself is closed almost instantaneously as he crosses the room, immediately invading her space. His intentions are less than clear and his movement is without hesitation, which would generally make almost anyone uncomfortable. Closing in, he doesn't smell…..good. And it isn't as though he's gotten any prettier, though he absolutely remains physically the same.

Those eyes burn holes into Lydia the closer he gets, and his expression, smiling, fierce, overly friendly, twisting into almost a grimace now. It definitely indicates he's the same ghoul that he always was, something malicious always churning beneath the surface, but it seems …. tempered, at least, by the fact that, unbeknownst to her, she literally just rescued him from three hundred years of agonizing entrapment.

He hesitates there, almost…almost touching her. He looms, leans in. Of course, it isn't like he hasn't dreamt of her. Thought of her. Cursed her name. But being back here in her actual presence is enough to keep him from misbehaving momentarily. "We had a deal," he says, slowly, his breath ghosting the poor girl's cheek, one brow twisting up, "Change your mind…?"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Each of his forward steps was met with a proportionate step back until, inevitably, she was crowded against the wall in the corner of the room. The acrid scent of burning tobacco itched at her nostrils, followed by an undercurrent of grave dirt and something unmistakably damp. From this close distance, she could make out the fine details of the moss that kissed his gums.

_You can do this,_ she resolved, standing a bit straighter and willing her knees not to buckle beneath her nightgown. _You have to. It's the right thing to do._

"We did," she agreed, voice soft, incapable of tearing her gaze from his. They had yet to unlock since meeting. There was something dark there, twisted and aching to get out. Would he unleash it on her? She certainly deserved it. "And I fucked you over. And it was _wrong_."

The last word wavered on her tongue and she finally found the motivation needed to avert her eyes, clenching them shut before reopening and settling on the tie knot below his Adam's apple. It was taking everything she had to stamp down the instinct to run, to duck beneath his arm and put distance between them. He needed to know that she wasn't going to fight him.

"So… I guess the answer to that question is… yes."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

The looming spirit could tear this house to pieces. He could ruin the lives of this poor girl's parents and banish the Maitlands off to some nowhere where only nightmares remained. His possibilities were endless now, and they clamored and cluttered his brain as Lydia opened her mouth to speak. Oh, he was angry all right, but something about her stopped him. Something about this girl, this stupid, beautiful little girl, left him yearning to understand. _Why?_ – it was a question he had asked her and it almost set him off track once. He wouldn't let it happen again.

He stopped there, listening to her, his face still frozen in a questioning frown. Listening to her _apologize_. Wait —- _apologize _– yes. And, after all that, she confirms that she is still willing. Oh, this is too much. The ghost's face crumples in a frustrated anger, and he pops the cigarette between his fingers into his pallid lips and takes a long hard drag.

"Fucking… _teenagers_," he spits over her shoulder, pulling himself back from where he's crowded her. He then walks back on his curse immediately, whirling his back to her, gesticulating as he paces away for a moment. "Okay, okay," he seems to be trying to get a hold on how to _make this situation work for him_ – in genuine disbelief, and he stomps over to her bed, walking directly onto it, his dirty black boots leaving muddy dark prints all over her nice comforter. It makes her bedsprings groan under his weight. _"You're serious?"_

He doesn't wait for an answer and pushes forward as he's accustomed to doing – running over people until they do what he wants or at least until he can talk them into it.

"Why—" he starts, and then stops, "Babes," he holds out his hands, inquiringly, "Why didn't you ask earlier? Do you have any idea—" he pauses, putting his fingers to his lips as if steeling patience within himself before finishing his thought. He flicks the cigarette off onto the floor beneath him and takes a hard jump off her mattress, making the springs nearly scream as he lands with a solid, well-positioned thud onto her floor. He looks like he's about to close that distance again to wherever she's moved. "What the hell happened then? Huh?! _Where were you?"_

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

Lydia stood frozen in the corner all throughout his tantrum, spine plastered to the wall vertebrae by vertebrae, spiced honey eyes widening a fraction with each abrupt movement. She cringed at the tracks he left on her comforter but shelved the petty mess away to be dealt with another time. It was entirely too soon to start nagging him. The ghoul moved so quickly and his line of questioning veered paths so rapidly that Lydia could hardly make heads or tails of exactly what he was asking her.

Suddenly, he made a daring leap from her mattress to the floor, a guttural sound tearing from his throat. Lydia spared a moment to glance at the door, concerned that the ruckus might attract unwanted attention. As it was, Mr. and Mrs. Maitland were running an errand in the Neitherworld and hadn't been seen for several weeks, Delia was dosed up on valium, and her father was passed out drunk at his desk. No one would interrupt them tonight.

_"What the hell happened then? Huh?! __Where were you?__"_

Oh.

He wanted to know what took her so long to nut up.

"Where were _you_?" She bit back with a suicidal acidity, experiencing a stab of indignation she knew she didn't have any right to feel. It was quickly tampered with a single deep breath. "I didn't. Think. You would come." She repeated slowly with careful, even pauses. "I thought… I thought that I was calling for someone who wasn't there anymore."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

It doesn't seem as though the poltergeist is particularly concerned with who he wakes up – but his eyes track hers to the door in a brief flicker before returning to her face. At her response, he squints, and blinks. His lips pull into a strange grimace.

"Where was—- oh, I'm sorry," he drawls facetiously, drawing himself up, "I thought you were _there _\- are you _blind?_ You didn't see me get _eaten by a sandworm?!_ Thanks for the fuckin' help with that by the way, those things are like a thousand feet long and it takes two months to go through 'em – and let me tell you, it isn't _pleasant_, they try and digest you from the head first," the ghost yanks on his jacket in irritation.

"And then, and then, miss Lydia, Lydia Deetz, my darling, little Lydia Deetz," his lips pulled into a snarl, "After I survived that I had to talk to my caseworker and that took _three years._ So I was a little…._just a little…_.TIED….UP!" the last comes as a roar, accompanied by flailing, frustrated arms. The ghost doesn't mention the resulting house arrest …. no need to give away more than he needs to. He then gestures dismissively, "You've read the handbook. The only way for a ghost to die is by being exorcized. If you say my name three times I show up. That's how this works." His fingers spread, "Now you know." The fierce grin that follows isn't ….nice, per say, but at least it seems he's calming down. Sort of.

"And I'm here now," he adds, lighting another cigarette casually, "And I'd say we should finish what we started, but ah—" he looks around, and gestures to the room containing only them, "—-no witnesses." His grin is almost… _mean?_ The last is said dripping with huffy bitterness. If he's noticed her weird, slow, trembling tone he hasn't reacted quite yet, instead, he throws himself into a chair nearby and glowers at Lydia, studying her. His eyes have still not peeled away from her face. After a long note of silence, he finally asks, in a voice resembling the one that asked her why she wanted to be dead so long ago, "So, what's the _real _reason I'm here, babes?"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia shrunk further into her corner the angrier he grew, willing the wall at her back to just swallow her whole. It was deserved. He was right. She didn't have any right to have hurt feelings over his extended absence, especially when she wasn't even able to summon the courage to attempt reaching out to him until tonight, until now.

The nightmare that woke her had been particularly vivid. In this one, he held her close instead of pushing her away when the sandworm came crashing through the ceiling. _"If I'm goin' down, you're goin' down with me,"_ the apparition drawled in her ear right before a striped serpent careening toward them, row after row of jagged unsightly teeth ready to be coated with her blood. His explicit testimonial of being eaten alive- so to speak- by one of these vicious beasts brought the still fresh images from her night terror to the forefront of her mind.

_She _did that to him.

There were several moments during his fit where she opened her mouth, yet another apology aching to tumble from her trembling lips and put an end to his furious rant, but there was no room. He either wasn't ready or didn't want to hear it. Once he finally settled into her reading chair in the opposite corner, the mental restraints that kept her chained in place dissipated. Without his animated form flitting from one side of the room to the other, invading the entire space, it was deemed safe to retreat from her crevice.

_"So, what's the _real _reason I'm here, babes?"_

"Because I'm _stupid_," she hissed without even the slightest hint of malice, turning her back on him to crouch beside her vanity and collect the items that fell to the floor during his abrupt entrance. With shaking hands, she put them back into place, honey eyes settling on the spot in her mirror where she knew he would be had he a reflection of his own- maintaining eye contact without having to actually be subjected to his judgemental glare.

"This was a bad idea," she muttered, bowing her head so that a curtain of inky black could hide her face from view. He would never give her the atonement she needed. "I shouldn't have called you- _no_," she corrected herself harshly. "I should have called you a long time ago. I should have kept my word. I shouldn't have left you to rot-" this word dripped with self-loathing. Tears pricked the back of her eyelids, but she refused to let them fall. Not now, not in front of him. She probably looked weak enough, with her stuttered words and trembling limbs. Tear stains running down her cheeks would only be the cherry on top of that humiliation sundae.

"I'm sorry," she concluded simply, defeated, well aware that it was not enough. "If you still want my help getting out, it's yours. If you don't, that's fine too."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

It wasn't as if he hadn't had his own nightmares. Ghosts aren't really supposed to dream, or so it's said. But his in the past few years, when they've come, they've come vivid and terrifying. Nothing scares the spookster easily – least of all silly dreams – but these….these have been different. Intense and leaving him in the equivalent of a cold sweat, they've only added to the blackness of his house arrest. If he could have seen Lydia's dreams, they would have most likely left him similarly frightened…but perhaps for different reasons.

At the moment though, the way she says what she says is terrifying enough. It slices a cold, steely blade through his blackened heart like a knife through butter without pause. She isn't lying to him. She isn't trying to trick him. In fact, she's stuck to her story the entire time he's stomped all over her bedroom. The clamoring noise for fire and death and revenge in his mind shatter. _She's genuine. She's really…completely genuine…._ "Oh…._geez_," he yelps - the realization hits him like a freight train. Faster than a hungry sandworm. You stupid, stupid….stupid….stupid….

He's up in an instant, again, his hands stretched out, doing that awkward side-to-side quick walk like he's trying to avoid stepping on snakes all over the floor. "No, no—no—-" he croons, acknowledging his ridiculous mistake in the repetitive word, waving his arms in front of his face. His hands find placement on her crumpled shoulders, his grip is firm, insistent. It lifts her to him slightly without asking because he never does. Maybe there was an actual part of him that genuinely thought….well it was just a _scheme _wasn't it? He wasn't supposed to fall in love with her. And she wasn't supposed to fall in love with him – it was just to achieve the _end goal_. But something went wrong. Something went so….sideways.

"We can still—" he hesitates, "I still need your help, yes. Getting out," it's a sort of weird admittance, and he hastily almost mumbles it, "But babes…you…I'm sorry I got angry. I was waiting for a long time, and I just got—I got—I don't do well in _confined spaces—_ look it isn't your fault, it's…. it's my fault, okay? I should have written, or called, or something—" he's rambling now, knowing full well he couldn't have done any of those things whatsoever. His facial expression goes from placating to scrunched to furrowed, and for the first time he actually looks at her, really takes a good, searching _look _now that she's been almost pressed to his face. He blinks a few times as if seeing her for the vulnerable little girl she really is – and realization dawns on his face. "Babes….are you….okay?"

He intones it wrong, of course, like she maybe has something on her face…but he means it.

Did the Maitlands do something to her? Something dark twists deep in his chest at the idea of it. _They're too stupid, right?_

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

Lydia was still reeling from his rapid change of tune when he hit her with the unexpected inquiry as to her wellbeing. _No_, she had the insane impulse to say. _I'm really, really not okay._

"I'm fine," she answered instead, numb and dry, giving her first lie of the night. His large, filthy hands easily spanned the length of both her shoulders, their fingertips digging into the muscle there uncomfortably but without intent to cause pain. At this proximity, his superior height forced her to crane her neck back to keep eye contact. Uneasy with such close male contact- nevermind who the male in question was- Lydia squirmed, but did not make any attempts at escape for fear he might misinterpret them and descend into another furious tirade. His unpredictable disposition called for a cautious approach.

"Haven't been sleeping well," she conceded after another beat, sensing that her previous lie was not satisfying, and threw a brief glance at her disheveled bedclothes. They were already twisted about and out of order before he stomped all over them. An alarm clock on the nightstand glared the time back at her; 4:00 a.m. School started in three hours. It appeared tonight would not be the night she got her much needed rest.

"You're really not mad at me?" She needed to hear it again, needed the confirmation that everything really was okay. "I didn't _mean _to," she explained vaguely, avoiding eye contact again. "I didn't understand. I thought- I thought you meant _later_. That you would come back when I was older or- or- have me sign a marriage license or something. Everything happened too fast and I panicked."

Given the opportunity to speak uninterrupted, it was the girl's turn to ramble on awkwardly, desperate to smooth out any residual negativity. The rabid fury that minutes before had radiated off of him in waves still stagnated the air, choking the deeply empathetic Lydia.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

The ghost continued to inspect her, expression one of obvious doubt – his eyes roving as if to scry the source of this strange behavior. Betelgeuse was always one to sort of take things at face value; the idea of him being emotionally in tune with anyone else on its face was ridiculous. But here he stood, trying to figure out the girl who wasn't flinching or tensing under his demanding grip. If he can unlock this weird teenager puzzle he might indeed be able to complete this deal, this _marriage of inconvenience_ – and being dead will no longer trouble him. He'll have fully exited the unfair, stratified, rules-based system that has tortured him for millennia. If he plays his cards right…. But what cards are those, exactly? _Expressing feelings?_ The thought made his stomach churn. _Gross_.

He listens as she only part-way describes what is going on with her, his mind unable to stay in one state for too long, drifting to more carnal thoughts briefly as he held her. She smelled good. She smelled alive and breathing, and he was _free_. But he had to stay focused. Focused, focused—he swallows, audibly.

"Well, I mean," he mutters, trying to come back from that overwhelming temptation to indulge. Patience is not one of his fortitudes, either, "No need to delay a deal when it seemed so—" close, "—convenient, we had our witnesses, we had the outfits, I had the ring—" _where did that ring go?_ "You were there, I was there," he chuckles brusquely, "I said I was only gonna do it once babe. Once and only once, with you." That last part was true. What other young, nubile, teenage girl with pale, soft skin would—FOCUS.

"I'm not …I'm not—" _angry?_ Talking about feelings is … not his thing. "No, no. Look, you had some bad dreams and so you….you called me—" _Fucking teenagers_, "Why wait till you were older?" there goes that weird, breathy chuckle again, "You can handle this now, I'm the world's most eligible bachelor babes, I get to look this good forever. We can find some witnesses. We can still do this, together— I didn't mean to get so angry, it's just been a … but that doesn't matter—" _The plan could still work. His freedom is so close, if only he doesn't blow it—-_ "You got cold feet, everyone gets cold—cold feet, you know, that's why I answered for you during the vows, remember, babes?" _Come on….._

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia, inexperienced and unaccustomed to attracting male attention, was unable to recognize the signs and therefore remained entirely oblivious to the poltergeist's internal struggle.

"I remember," she answered, lips twitching with something that might have been a smile if one were to tilt their head and squint. "You won't have to do that again… but-" Placated by his reassurances, she smoothly slipped from his grasp and crossed to the edge of her mattress to begin collecting besmirched sheets and blankets. "I'd really prefer if we could find some witnesses that aren't Adam, Barb, or my parents."

It was painfully embarrassing how easily he had seen through her ambiguous admission. Shit, he probably knew damn good and well that the nightmares were about him. After tossing the bundle of fabric into the corner and disposing of the stray cigarette butt he left on the floor earlier, Lydia gave her room another cursory once-over, searching for any further evidence of his presence. It wouldn't do for either her living or deceased parental units to discover her treason. They would never understand. Everything would just go to shit again.

The heavy curtains that dressed her window were drawn back to reveal that the sky was a rich royal blue, signifying the sun would be rising soon. She pulled the glass halfway up the pane and lit a stick of dragonblood incense. Hopefully, this would cover up the cigarette smell. Her father and Delia were not prone to snooping, but she wasn't about to take any chances.

"I have to go to school soon," she offered, gazing out to the horizon. "Not for a couple hours, but…" She trailed off, unsure where this left them. Did he want to do this _now?_ Like last time? She didn't, but also didn't consider herself in a position to be the one setting terms. Not with her history of betrayal.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

As she pulls back he easily releases her as she confirms acquiescence to saying her vows this time. The ghost still has his suspicions but it seems as though she is actually…really going to go through with it. He watches her move around the room in her nightgown and wipes a hand down his face, running it through his hair afterward. He's never really _stopped _from pursuing women physically, even those not exactly consenting to his advances, but in this instance, he _must_. Maybe. For now. Maybe. As she leans over to pick up the cigarette butt he leans full back though, trying to get a sneak peek of those legs and … more. She's so _fresh_. He's been so pent up. He swallows again and internally curses every deity he can remember, trying not to growl aloud. He's not sure if he's successful.

He is distracted from his lusty reverie by three names: Deetz's, Barb, and Adam. His attention snaps-to and makes a face as though he's sucked on a lemon, crouching instinctively, eyes flicking at the ceiling suspiciously.

"No no no no no, we don't want any of those _losers _at the …the wedding…" no, none of them would be there. His plans wouldn't be interrupted again. "Where ah—where do they happen to be at the current time, exactly?" that's a question he probably should have asked earlier. In his one track tirade, he hadn't been paying attention to his surroundings very well. Stupid.

Reflexively, after she lights the incense he wanders by and pinches it out, putting out his second cigarette in the incense tray. It isn't malicious as much as it is simply selfish and rude – he demonstrates these elements in his personality in so many ways just by being _himself_. He parks himself on the end of her bed, hiking up a knee, and flinches as she opens the curtains. Daylight was coming. How long has it been since he's seen it? He looks pale in the growing sunlight and _wrong _– almost bloated, washed out, the mold growing on his face an even sicklier green color.

"School?" the ghost repeats, dumbly. He jerks in realization, "Oh, right, right. You kids do that. Okay, uh," he snaps his fingers a few times trying to jog his brain into focusing again after being distracted by the daylight. He points at her, "Witnesses. I'll … go find witnesses. You know, once you …." He circles his hand around, letting the motion finish his thought. Fear suddenly crosses his face after a moment and Lydia finds herself with her hands clasped in his in a gentle, but firm and slightly desperate grip in grubby, pallid hands. He moves so quickly to her it is probably a bit of a shock. "Just—just….don't. Don't go anywhere okay? Don't say the B-word, don't tell….you know, don't tell _them_, okay? It won't take me long." Time equates to possibilities of all kinds messing up his plans. "I'll be gone for like, just a few hours, babes, I just gotta find us some witnesses, you know, do it the right way. You still have the ring right?" he gulps, hopefully. He genuinely isn't sure if he can find another one.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia sighed airily, relit the incense right after he put it out, and shot a frown at his back. _That was unnecessary._

"Delia will be dead to the world until around noon, and my father will probably trudge out of his study once she starts hacking away at some poor, defenseless hunk of marble." She paused before explaining away the Maitlands' absence, pondering how best to answer without giving away too much. "I'm not sure when Adam and Barb will be back. They've been in the Neitherworld for a few weeks."

There was something melancholic in her voice while she relaid this. Lydia both dreaded and yearned for their reappearance and the news they would bring with them. The waiting was torture.

Suddenly, he was invading her personal space again, grabbing hold of her hands- _gently_, she noticed, a heat she didn't quite understand settling in her belly. "I won't," she promised, eyes big, taken aback by the sheer desperation in his pleas. "But if you don't want them to suspect that you're here, you'll have to do something about the cigarette butts. _And don't put out my incense_," she chastised lightly, brows furrowing while a put-out frown pouted her bottom lip.

_"You still have the ring, right?"_

For the first time ever, she smiled directly at him. Not a teeth-baring grin, but a warm, easy smile that highlighted the way the sunrise made her honey eyes gleam gold. Without a word, she slipped her hands from his, turned to her vanity, and pulled open the bottom left drawer.

"Of course I still have it," she answered, as though the possibility of it being anywhere else was laughable to her. "A _ghost _gave it to me. _The _ghost." For fear of augmenting his already overly inflated ego, she refrained from voicing the rest of his self-proclaimed title aloud. "You can't buy that in stores."

With that, she held a simple silver band up for him to see, before slipping it onto the ring finger on her left hand and splaying the digits wide appraisingly. This was a thoughtless, automatic gesture, repeated countless times before. There was a sort of fondness in her gaze as the band caught a sunray, showcasing how very polished it was.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Good. That crosses off the problems on his list. The problems on his list primarily comprise of "Barb, Adam, and the Deetz's". Internally, he checks those off. It still leaves open the possibility that the Maitlands will return at any time, but if he's quick and sneaky enough they won't have the chance to stop him like last time. Plus, he has other ideas to keep them away…just in case. If Barbara hadn't found that sandworm, he would have been _golden_. But fortunately, it seems Lydia has changed her mind about the entire idea and is willing to literally seal the deal. For that, he is her lapdog as of current.

Something nags in his brain. She doesn't call her mother by that title. Instead, she's _Delia _– while he witnessed their weird relationship while he had free reign of the house, this cemented his suspicions that the red-head was most likely not Lydia's biological parent. That doesn't cover Charles, that doughy putz, but he was probably the progenitor in this instance. While he doesn't vocalize this quite yet, it is something for him to chew on in the background.

In the forefront though, the girl fusses at him about something to do with behavior and cigarette butts. The ghost doesn't _do _rules, but in this instance, as mentioned, he is at her behest. So, in an appeasing tone, he hurries out a, "Sure, sure." – with a snap, the cigarette butts are gone and with a flick of his wrist the smell in the room is entirely incense, no odiferous leftovers to be had.

_And she still has the ring._

This gives the ghost a startle, in fact. The impact that she still has it is far deeper than he could have expected – and cements the idea that she is one hundred percent for real. She fetches it, _compliments _his ego (close enough to the self-proclaimed title for him, the jerk) and displays it on her slim and graceful fingers. It's been polished. She's smiling. It's too good. Oh, it's _far _too good. His heart leaps into his throat, and in an instant, he's on her.

Whether or not she puts up resistance is apparently irrelevant, but he barks out an over-enthusiastic and probably overly-loud, choked, "Babes!" as his moss encrusted lips descend upon hers for a wet, overly emotional smack. Whether or not he actually gets to is also not apparently important – the gesture was one of emotional overwhelm. He's all hers. He's _pudding _in her small hands. _She's going to save him. He's going to be completely, utterly free and untethered._

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

It was over before Lydia could even begin to process what was happening. She only knew that his lips were rough and chapped because of the way her mouth tingled afterward, as though the flesh had just brushed concrete, still somewhat moist from his _saliva_.

"Why did you _do _that?!" She gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth, scrambling back in horror and knocking items from her vanity's surface all over again in the process. "You can't- you can't just do things like that!"

Her heart hammered so furiously against her chest she was sure the ghost before her could hear it if he tried. Her cheeks burned and the fingers that blinded her lips, one of which was adorned with a shining silver band, trembled. A crushing sort of panic began to creep in as the loss fully dawned on her. That was her _first _kiss and now it was gone before she could even truly appreciate it. Her breaths came in sharper as the room seemed to shrink.

It was entirely too crowded in here. She needed air. She needed to be _alone_.

"I- I- I need to get ready for school." Not a complete truth. She still had plenty of time to sit and discuss things further if she wanted to, but he didn't need to know this. "You should go. Find witnesses, right? It's not like they grow on trees, so yeah, you should probably start looking now."

The suggestion- part command, part plea- came out jerky, borderline shrill.

"I'll meet you back here around 3:30, okay?" She finished, hoping that this would obliterate the optional nature of her request.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

He doesn't say it aloud, even though he could: he can, and he did "just do that". She just gave…no, the first kiss she ever had was _taken _by a corpse-like ghoul many years her senior. The only thing he can offer her is that classic Betelgeuse, awful, gleeful high pitched laugh – _that _he can't help.

"There's more where that came from, honey."

Grossing the living out is fun no matter what, even though at this point he'd do anything for this girl just to get her back in wedding clothes. He also couldn't help but notice her lips were delicious, warm, and soft – something his own desperately lacked in all measure, and almost every part of him was tempted to do experience them again. But she gets him back on track with her request, her plea, for him to go find witnesses. Her discomfort was, at this point, her own to bear it seemed … he was on a big egotistical cloud nine and didn't seem too inclined to come down off it. _She'll get over it. Right? They had a deal._

"Right—" he claps his hands, "Right. I'll meet you back here. Gotcha," he winks at her and grins, "Till we meet again babes." And in an instant he disappears in a glowing flash, relinquishing her bedroom back to her as if he had never been there at all.


	2. The Wedding

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

The school day passed with excruciating sluggishness. Lydia was distracted, jittery, and anxious. It was impossible to lose herself in class work, not with the knowledge of her impending wedding looming over her shoulders. She floated from class to class in a listless daze, barely giving her surroundings any consideration.

The kiss changed everything. He wasn't supposed to kiss her. _This _wasn't supposed to be like _that_. Would he… did he expect… consummation? Lydia's stomach flipped and her mouth watered with nausea. Her grip on her pencil tightened until her fingernails dug into her palm, leaving tiny little crescent-shaped marks.

_You don't have to do it,_ the coward inside of her spoke up, whispering the key to her salvation. _You can say his name _right now_ and forget this whole thing ever happened._

It was a pretty thought, but it was a lie. There would be no forgetting this- _him_. The nightmares would keep coming until they buried her in guilt and regret. After all, deals made with the dead were not meant to be broken. He seemed reasonable- _okay, that wasn't the best word to use-_ enough. He got rid of the cigarette butts when she asked, didn't he? And the smell? Maybe he would understand, or they could come to some sort of agreement or compromise-

Lydia grimaced. The potential of any _compromises _they could possibly come to regarding the physical validation of their marriage only served to exacerbate her squeamishness. It wasn't necessarily him so much as the act itself that terrified her. Of course, it didn't help that Betelgeuse was much taller and stronger than her, not to mention his dangerous mood swings. If he decided he wanted her, there wasn't a lot she could do to stop him.

_RING! RING! RING!_

Finally, the bell that signaled the end of the school day sounded. With sweating palms, Lydia gathered her things into her backpack, exited the classroom, and began trudging down the hall that led to the exit where the bike rack was posted up. She took her sweet, sweet time, in absolutely no rush to see her fiance.

* * *

"Like… Claire?"

A stunningly beautiful girl with bronze skin, platinum hair, and a glacial gaze flickered her orbs up from her phone to her best friend- a dishwater blonde named Stacy, currently stationed in the driver's seat of Claire Brewster's baby blue Porsche. She would have preferred to ride around in the hot pink one today, but Daddykins was having it detailed for his precious little sugar plum princess.

"Ya?" She answered sharply, popping her gum, annoyed that she was being distracted from her game of candy crush.

"There's a _pest _in our way," Stacy informed, a nasty smile curling her lips. "See it?"

They were taking the back roads that led to Claire's boyfriend Josh's family cabin. His parents were out of town so they could use the cozy hideaway to drink and get high to their heart's content. These paths were skinnier than the main streets, not meant for anything wider than a minivan. A good ways ahead of them, through the thickness of the foliage, Claire could make out the blue plaid of their school uniform… as well as a head of long, raven hair blowing in the wind.

"Oh, I see it," Claire replied, an even nastier grin splitting across her face as she locked her phone and tossed it aside. There were much more interesting games to be played at the moment.

"I don't think this road is, like, big enough for the both of us. Do you, Claire?"

"No, Stacy," the blonde answered, rolling down her window so that she could have a better view. "I don't think it is, either."

* * *

Lydia landed at the foot of a gnarled tree at the bottom of a ditch, only vaguely aware of hysterical female laughter disappearing into the distance before the pain set it. A cry of anguish tore from her throat as the root scraped and ripped at the flesh running up the side of her left calf up to the knee. Simultaneously, the wrist she reflexively used to catch herself as her bike went tumbling down the hill burned. Hissing with each movement and blinking back tears of pain, Lydia gathered herself and her scattered belongings.

There was a cut on the bend of her knee that was deeper than the other superficial scrapes. It bled gratuitously, leaving a bright red trail down to the black sock tucked into her combat boot. Her wrist, the left one, was already beginning to swell. She could still rotate it, so she knew it wasn't broken, but carrying anything with that hand would be impossible.

Slowly, limping slightly as a direct result of the gash on her knee, Lydia continued her trek home, guiding her bike alongside her with her uninjured hand. There would be no riding it the rest of the way, not with her wrist in the state it was in, unable to grip anything with any real strength.

Around 4:45, Lydia Deetz walked through the front door of her house.

"Oh, _Lydia!"_ An overly joyful, shrill Delia called from her studio without leaving the room, the sound of the front door opening having alerted her to her stepdaughter's presence. "I went grocery shopping today and picked up everything on your list! Your allowance is on the counter and all the dishes are washed, so if you could start dinner soon that would be _wonderful!"_ The redhead's tone was so bright and whimsical she was practically singing. Delia must have been feeling inspired, then.

"I'm not feeling very well," Lydia called back, retrieving a twenty dollar bill from the counter and trying her absolute best to maintain a timbre of indifference. "Can we do pizza instead?"

_"Ugh," _Delia scoffed loudly, sounding quite put out, and a heavy _BANG _echoed from the room on the second floor, as though she'd just taken a hammer to one of her sculptures. "If you can call that cardboard-" _BANG _"- thing-" _BANG _"- pizza. I'll have your father call in the order in a few."

Winter River's only pizzeria was a questionably "authentic" Sicilian cafe that, unfortunately, provided the best take out the small town had to offer. Delia at least seemed satisfied with the suggestion. Carefully, Lydia crept passed the open door to her studio, hoping not to draw the redhead's attention. Explaining her tardiness to Betelgeuse would be uncomfortable enough. No need to engage her stepmother in unnecessary conversation. Luckily, the muses were with her today and Delia didn't spare her stepdaughter a first glance or second thought. She didn't even seem to notice that Lydia had come home much later than she usually did.

There's no way Betelgeuse wouldn't take note, though. He was pacing furiously in her bedroom when she finally entered, muttering lowly to himself, a deep scowl marring his already dark features. The poltergeist was so gone in his growling he didn't even notice she was there until she spoke.

"Sorry I'm late," she apologized grimly but with sincerity, and dropped her schoolbag at her feet unceremoniously. "Bike trouble."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Witnesses. Witnesses, witnesses, witnesses. Beetlejuice didn't really know anyone in the Netherworld well enough to get them to come to his wedding. Make the wrong choice and he could wind up with interference again, besides. _There would be no interference this time._ He only had a few hours.

Instead of pacing around his crypt and hoping for the best, the ghost had decided to fully head back to his stronghold – the Roadhouse. It takes some time as the way there can be tricky to navigate at times from the Outerworld if there aren't any doors opened that provide easy access. Mentally, he makes a note to create one and then scratches it. _Where I'm going, I won't need a door anymore._

He gives the front door to the Roadhouse a good hard kick open with one of his black boots, looking as triumphant as a ghost can. The place is relatively quiet except for a peculiar looking skeleton in a beret sitting on the moldering, stained couch in the middle of the room watching a flickering, whining television set. Oh. Right. Well, he does know some people after all. _If you can call them people._ Convincing them to do what he wants though…. Fuck. And he can't talk about the wedding. They'll get all excited and happy, and he _hates it so much_ when they get excited or happy. Or talk to him. Or exist.

"Bonehead. I need you to come with me somewhere in like…two hours."

"Oh oui? To where are we going, Bea-atle-jooce?"

"To look at something. And don't…._don't say my name_ you should know this by now—"

"To ….. look…. at somezing?"

"Yes. Quietly. Silently. Extremely….very silently. As quietly and as silently as you can possibly fuckin' manage. No matter how _exciting the thing_ is I want you to just…stay….completely quiet."

"Oh! Zat doesn't sound very fun. Iz it an interrrhresting thing?"

"Sure. Yes. Whatever. Just …. go get that eight-legged talentless hack and come with me."

"You know what happens when you are doing the interrupting of her studio time, Bea-atle-jooce."

"See, this is what I mean Jacque. That's twice. Knock it off. I can't fuckin' work with either if you if you insist on things like studio time. Get the spider and _meet me in two hours or I'm feeding you to the sandworms!"_

Now to go talk to Captain Yipee-Ki-Yay across the street. _Groan_.

Somehow, he manages to convince the trio of his roommates and neighbor to come to this thing. The Monster Across the Street's girlfriend wouldn't go until he told them it was indeed a wedding, and she had the gall to huff about the short notice but seemed very happy for him. Happy enough that he almost puked after leaving, but he managed to keep the beetles in his stomach down. For now. Hopefully, those two don't ruin it for him by telling the other two the nature of the event. He hated this place _so much_. As he said many years ago to Lydia, the place was just _too creepy_. And by creepy, he meant _annoying and stupid_.

He checked the five watches on his wrist. Only two worked, and one was wrong. He tapped the singular correct and working one that was chipped on the glass and squinted. He could scream – he was _only an hour away_ from freedom, but convincing all those dopes took far longer than he expected. He would have to hurry.

He found himself happily back in Lydia's place right before the main event. It would take him a little time to _set the plan_ – and it keeps him busy for the remaining time. He waits. And waits. He paces her floor. The amount of cigarettes on the floor continues to grow. She's late.

She's really late. Or she's not coming.

She double-crossed him.

Two of him pace the room now. 3:50pm. They argue and stew.

"There's nothing stopping us from searching the house."

"We should probably trust her, right? She had the ring, she had the …. She apologized, it was that whole big thing—"

"She fuckin' double-crossed us, asshole."

"She can't get cold feet again—she didn't BANISH us, we're still HERE aren't we?"

"Stupid teenage bitch. Where is she then? Huh?!"

4:15pm comes and goes.

The ghost is in a rage state. He's stomped across her bed so much it's partially broken. Cigarette butts and beer litter the floor. He's puked twice on her vanity. There are boot marks on the ceiling. The mirror is cracked. He's torn the curtains from the hinges. It's a horror show, and he keeps obsessively tapping his watch. He's about to fly out the door and shake her parents down for her location, scare them so witless they would be vegetables by the end of it when—-she walks in.

She walks into her destroyed bedroom. At 4:45pm.

He's still pacing and growling and stomping through the mess he's created so much that he barely notices her entrance. Once he does, though, his glowering features change. He takes her in, her bleeding state and exhausted looking face, and all seems forgiven.

"Babes," he says, rushing to her, taking up her hands again in an emotional sweep into his grubby mitts, his addressing of her said in a tone that could only be described as desperately grateful. He doesn't realize that her hand or wrist is probably pretty angry at this point. "You look how I feel," he snickers, jokingly, before assessing her more fully. "Bikes, you know I hate 'em — you're bleeding."

The last is intoned grimly, and his eyes squint. That brain is working, and its inherently mistrustful nature makes him suspicious as to _how _exactly this happened. The living are so hysterically fragile it's like the world's biggest punchline. Other than dying. And they do die so easily – he should know. He's sent a number of them to the old waiting room a little early. He frowns, though. This….this he doesn't like. She needs to stay unharmed. Alive. It's a conspiracy to keep him from winning her.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Approximately three seconds after greeting him, as he was the very first thing to reach her eye's focus, Lydia noticed the state of the rest of her room. She expected there to be some wear-n-tear, what with the filthy ghoul taking up momentary residence in the space, but this was more than she could have possibly prepared herself for.

Her breath caught in her throat. His words turned into a dull buzz in the back of her head, indecipherable and unimportant. Wordlessly, she limped right passed him, brushing his shoulder on the way, and crouched down to pick up her antique copy of _The Brothers Grimm: Complete Collection of Fairytales_, lying open on the ground, a muddy boot print marring the kiss that woke Snow White from her deathly slumber. Why would he do this? Did he hate her that much? Maybe he was lying earlier and really was still harboring resentment. Hurt beyond words, she clutched it to her chest before standing to confront him.

However, the sight of her vanity's mirror killed the _why _that was working to form on her tongue. The looking glass was split right down the middle, fracturing Lydia's reflection. A wounded sound fell from her lips and she surged forward impulsively as though she might be able to save it from the damage it had already undergone, only to catch herself with a jerk. Instinctively, her right hand reached for the crack- willing it to _please _just disappear. Without the extra support, her injured hand was unable to continue carrying the book. Her wrist twinged, she cried out, and the tome once more fell to the ground with a heavy thud.

It was all much too much. The tears came and they came with a vengeance; big, fat, wet droplets streaming down her reddened cheeks and dampening the collar of her blouse. She held herself tight and tucked her chin down to her collarbone, creating an impenetrable wall with her curtain of thick, ebony hair. Deep, shuddering sobs quaked her shoulders and her knees buckled as if the tiny thing was straining to carry her own insignificant weight.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

She drifted from his clasped hands and into the room like a zombie. His perplexed expression followed her, trying to be patient enough to figure out what in the world was wrong. He just watches her, baffled, as she limps and looks at him angrily, and then rushes to the vanity as if to comfort it. Yeah, he wrecked the room a little bit, certainly, but his face twists into one of total confusion over it. The living were singularly peculiar.

Normally, making anyone so miserable was almost one of his hobbies. But this one wasn't intentional – and he starts to explain himself with a starting, "—-well, I thought you weren't coming back so I—-" _destroyed the place?_ She drops the book she was clutching like a baby with a thud, her arm seemingly injured.

Oh….oh no. She's crying. His face grimaces. He clutches at the air behind her in frustration when he knows she can't see, hands balled into fists, his shoulders yanking back and forth in frustration. Fuck! Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. He doesn't know how to handle _this_. He's not really in a relationship with her! How does he fix this?! They have a wedding to be at! Theirs! And they're already late! His freedom seems so close, again, so tantalizingly close and yet so so far.

"It's okay, it's okay!" He growls, unable to keep the frustration from slipping in. He snaps his fingers and the room is suddenly, abruptly returned to normal. No mess, no fuss, no broken mirrors. The book on the floor even floats back into her bookshelf. "Now—I can't do anything about the— don't cry, no, don't— the vanity is alright, look, see? I can't fix the bleeding though—honey, come on…."

Searching for anything, anything he can think of to make it better, the best thing he can come up with is turning himself into a bloody mess all over his face. It's horrific looking, red oozes from his eyes, nose, ears, mouth, and hairline, coating his face and staining all over his striped suit. He puts his hands on her shoulders, not even thinking that this might only make it so much worse - "See? Look, we match! Eeeeyyy, we're like peas in a pod honey, right? _Right?"_

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

The jovial quality of his voice drew her from her despair, despite the undertones of desperation of which she was currently deaf to. He didn't get to be _happy _when she was so _miserable_. It wasn't fair. Her head snapped up abruptly, ready to tear into him with vicious words. Instead, a sound like a cross between a scream and a bark of laughter tore from her throat.

_"You look-"_ she sniffled, unable to stifle the involuntary giggles his current illusion was inspiring, even through the sobs and residual ache in her chest, _"- like you just had a really bad prom night."_

Now, she noticed the rest of the room, everything perfectly in place. It was neater than she had left it this morning. Her bed was even made. The smooth, unblemished surface of the mirror balmed her pain and drew a deep sigh of relief from her lungs. Suddenly feeling the events of the day, she dropped down to sit at the edge of her bed, pulled off her blazer, and began removing her shoes.

"Never do that again," she warned without looking in his direction, quiet and solemn as she unlaced her boots, one by one. Her knee no longer bled. Now, a crusted trail of dried blood flaked with each movement. She wasn't sure what she would do if he didn't heed her words and she didn't want to know, but they had to be said all the same.

"I'm serious," she reiterated as she passed him on the way to the adjoining bathroom to tend to her knee, leaving the door open so that he could continue speaking to her if he wished. Her cheeks were still damp and red, but no more tears fell. For the time being, all was well again. As well as circumstances allowed, anyway.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

She laughed. _She laughed._ Yes! Good! Good job, you stupid hack! Another win for today! You made it! You understand teenagers! _No, you don't._ And because she laughed, he laughed too, reverting himself back to normal. "You know, I never did go to prom," he admits, conversationally, with a strangely genuine smile at her. Did they even have prom when he was alive? Who really knows. "Do you think I would have killed it? Because I think I would have knocked 'em dead." _Badum tssh._

His humor is slightly tempered by her very firm instructions to him. He makes an awkward face as she removes her boots – something between a smile and a grimace, and leans against her dresser. "Do what? No, no, I just got a little….little excited, that's all, I won't mess up yer room again, I just…sometimes I don't….it isn't intentional." And that's honesty! There. A sliver of honesty from him. He's a messy guy though, and he rubs the back of his head thoughtfully. At least she can't see his crypt bachelor pad. She'd throw a fit.

"I don't have many limits to what I can do, babes, see. I'm the Ghost with the Most. But I can't bring back the dead, and I'm not a doctor…."

A voice lilts from within the newly repaired vanity mirror, interrupting him. "Bea-aaaaaaa-tle-jooce, we are le arrive'd! We are here with…how do you say…. ze bells on!"

Oh, great. The big hairy blabbermouth and his big blabbermouth girlfriend absolutely told bonehead and legs all about the wedding. In fact, they probably told them things he hadn't even decided yet. Great. Loving his afterlife right now. Why do things always go okay and then _ruined?!_

"Yeah yeah yeah yeah." He says to Jacques, and then cranes his neck into the entryway to the bathroom, "You'd better lock your door or somethin' before your pops walks in and I've got our witnesses here." He ducks back out.

Into the vanity he reaches, stabilizing himself with a boot against it. It rattles and shakes, and in a good moment or two a skeleton, a spider, and two enormous hairy monsters come tumbling into poor Lydia's room and onto her floor. They're all in suits or a dress, or whatever they could fit in to, and the spider has….a …. bouquet.

"Beejaaaay we're so haaaappy for yaaaaa!" the spider can talk, it seems. In a really strong Long Island accent, apparently. "You shoulda toooold us you was gettin' hitched!"

"Shut up, spinster. Remember how I told you all to be quiet? This is the quiet part, the really, really quiet part where all of you just….shut up, and stay shut up until I tell you to not be shut up. Got it?" hisses the ghoul. Whether or not this ragtag bunch is going to actually listen is another matter entirely. "And you, big n' hairy, don't shed on the floor the missus hates messes."

"Ooohh beejaaay, that's gonna be a prawblem for you—-"

"SHUT. UP. GINGER."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

When he warned her to lock the door, Lydia took him very seriously and hastened to wipe the last of the dried blood from her leg, quickening even further once foreign voices started sounding from the other room. Shyly, she peeked around the corner to watch the display, unsure of what kind of "witnesses" he would produce.

"Oh, Beejaaay!" A beautiful magenta spider the size of a large dog spoke up once her fuchsia eyes landed on the slip of a girl spying on them. "Is this her? Why didn'tcha tell us she was so GORGEOUS!" A bashful blush pinked Lydia's cheeks as the arachnid pulled her forward into the ragtag team of monsters filling her bedroom. "Now _this-_" she thrust a bouquet of dead roses into the girl's arms, "- is fuh you cause I just KNEW BJ would forget! He's awwwful about the lil things."

"Oh," Lydia couldn't help her smile, dipping her head to smell the stale flowers. "Thank you. They're beautiful."

_"Sacre bleu!"_ A well-built skeleton extolled, dropping to one knee before her, taking hold of one of her hands, and brushing his teeth across the knuckles in a boney, gentlemanly kiss. "Zee mademoiselle! She is polite! She is clean! She is boo-tiful! How does Bee-atle-joos come to win your love, mon cheri?" Even more blood rushed to her face, coloring her a deep red. Before she could begin to spin an answer for him, a deep scowl twisted his skull. _"Sans-couilles,_" he snarled after spotting something he didn't like and jumped to his feet, pointing an accusing bony finger at the poltergeist. "Zee mademoiselle is hurt! Did you do zis thing, Beeatlejoos! Where is your honor! Your sense of duty! Your-"

"No no no," Lydia cut in urgently, shaking her head. "It was an accident, he didn't do anything."

The skeleton seemed appeased by this but continued to mutter darkly and throw shade at the poltergeist through his empty eye sockets.

"You sure, lil lady?" A hulking beast of a monster growled from the wall he was crouched against, both he and his girlfriend- as that is the only thing the smaller, more delicate monster could be- having trouble standing up straight in her room. "Cause I got me some cousins been _itchin' _fer an excuse t' get their hands on-"

"I'm sure," Lydia relaid, smile growing larger. How could she be anything less than absolutely charmed by all of them?

"Then what in the blazes are we waitin' fer? Let's get you two hitched!"

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

Headache. These idiots were just one big foaming headache. The ghost groaned as they all clustered to Lydia, cooing at her, fawningly. He hated them with all the blackness of his soul. They were just…so…hideously …._embarrassing_.

Jacques was already accusing him of this or that, Ginger had supplied a bouquet and fussing at him more for his forgetfulness (_his mind was a steel trap! THANK you!_) and ye gods the Monster Across the Street was _far too happy_ about the entire soirée. Puke. Barf. Yuck. He's the best looking one in the room, you know? Someone not as handsome wouldn't have been able to swing a pretty girl like Lydia into this scheme thanks. But the ghost just glowers.

"Yeas!" the giant monstress at the Monster's arm purr-growled, "Oh I do love a good weddin', puddin'!"

"Me too, my little cactus flow'r," came the affectionate rumble in exchange.

Beetlejuice, having grumbled under his breath unhappily the entire time picked up where the Monsters left off. At least he knows his cues.

"Yeah yeah. Let's get this show on the road, shall we?" He asks, but then he pauses and considers for a moment schemingly. "Now I'm _serious _about the quiet part. I hate the sound of your voices on general principle, but there are _live people_ in this house that don't agree with me marryin' Lydia here. So it's gonna be _your jobs_ to listen in case anyone decides to come and crash our little party, okay?"

Maybe that would keep them busy. In the meantime, the ghost takes a moment to look to Lydia. His eyes are searching, and he snaps his fingers. It seems as though she's not too terribly injured but the ghost seems more hopeful than anything else – he can't fix it, so pushing ahead seems like his best bet. Her wall rumbles at the sound, the drywall and bricks underneath splitting apart. This time, a priest doesn't appear but instead, a large white room does beyond the ragged opening, fully decorated with rows of empty white chairs. Rose petals grace the floor, and a long walkway with a silvery white path leads off to the hazy font that sits at the end. That's where the weird looking, shrunken priest stands under a bower comprised of gold and white sculpted sandworms entangled with each other. Weird, screaming white birds swoop and dive in the ceilingless space above him.

"Ooo la la," said Jacque in surprise – it earns a hard glare and almost a snarl from the ghost.

He waits after that. No forced dress, no assumptions, which is a strange change. He holds out his hand to Lydia. The expression on his face is …. Hopeful. Worried. But hopeful.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

Even though this singular event was all that had been on Lydia's mind since she first awoke in a cold sweat in the wee hours of the morning, it wasn't until he offered her his hand with a strangely vulnerable look on his face that it fully dawned on her that _she was about to get married._

It was her wedding day! Circumstances aside, she couldn't walk down the aisle in a dirt and blood stained school uniform!

"One second," she muttered hastily and dropped her bouquet off on the vanity before grabbing her hairbrush and making a dash for the walk-in closet. At the time, she wasn't sure why she bought it. It wasn't black, it was more revealing than anything she owned, and since buying it the urge to wear it had never overcome her. Until now.

The lightweight, flowing maxi dress had thin spaghetti straps to hold it up, a plunging neckline, and a high slit up the side that would reveal a good portion of her leg whenever she walked. This was a dress designed for a taller person, so when Lydia wore it excess fabric trailed on the ground behind her. Grimacing at her sad variety of shoes- _she really needed something other than boots-_ she sped through brushing her hair and settled on remaining barefoot.

_There_, she considered her reflection, smoothing the skirts at her side. _Acceptable_.

"Okay!" Draped in red, Lydia emerged from the closet somewhat breathlessly and retrieved her bouquet, cradling the decrepit petals against the rarely exposed flesh of her decolletage. "Now I'm ready."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

The ghost cranes his neck after her and looks at his witnesses, who are also peering after the girl. Ginger shrugs the first three-quarters of her shoulders at a mystified Beetlejuice as Lydia disappears into the closet.

When she comes back, though, in the _number _that she does….it's better than anything the ghost would have picked to be quite honest. Better than anything he could have ever imagined seeing her in, actually. He literally has to slam a fist to his throat to keep from howling aloud like some sort of dog, while his other hand uses poor Jacque for balance. For once, he's at a complete loss for words. He chokes. If he had the ability to sweat he'd be sweating a waterfall by now. _She's actually the most beautiful creature he's ever seen._

"Miss _Lydia—_," gasps the Monster Across the Street with genuine astonish, and it seems not even he can finish his sentence.

"Now she lookz like a proper bride!" Chimes in Jacque, cheerily, once she gathers the flowers. Beetlejuice is still in the midst of almost beating himself to pieces to keep from jumping out of his own skin. Can he even touch her? _Did she have an ability to completely change herself like he did, what is this witchcraft?!_

He forgets altogether to even hold out his hand to her again. Or ask about the ring. Or think. Nope, thinking is over. In fact, Ginger has to climb up onto his shoulder and gently close his mouth. Once she does, he seems to sort of rattle back to his senses a bit. "Uh," he says intelligently. Ginger rolls her eyes and climbs back down.

This used to be a deal. This used to be simple. This used to be a marriage of inconvenience. She wasn't supposed to _enjoy _it – that was a happy side effect, of course, to getting her to acquiesce to it. But now things are quite different for the ghoul that stands at the threshold with this vision swimming in front of his eyes. _That's not even fair and she knows it. That's cheating._

Those jade eyes, once locked, devour her. She has the slim build of a girl her age, but now it is starkly outlined by the slinky number: her small but sweetly developed breasts peeking at the edges of the dress' center, her gently curved hips. Her leg peeks out the slit at the front, strong and yet supple, with petite and graceful feet that shyly appear beneath the overlong hem. He wants to immediately do absolutely disgusting things to them and then to the rest of her. He wants to make her scream. He wants to make her shake. He wants to own every inch of her and then some.

His tongue rapidly snakes around his chapped lips as if to moisten them. He barely remembers to put himself into a suit of some kind, and he absently makes it happen with the last remaining portion of his melted brain. It's the same maroon number, but less "eaten by sandworms" and more normal looking, missing even the graveyard dust that covered it in a previous incarnation – apparently he's not interested in looking as repulsive as possible this go-round.

Her readiness registers somewhere back in the corners of his brain. She said words. She _said she's ready, stupid!_

"Oh! Uh, uh, right. Yes. Right. Uh huh. Ready. Okay. Good. Good." He vaguely gestures, and gently she is drawn to him – similar to last time but less forceful. He almost does it without meaning to, the dress floating behind her feet as they leave the ground briefly to bring her near. The music begins. He offers his elbow. "Here we go, babes." The way he says it is almost to reassure himself, it would seem. And he steps into the room with her, into the silken path, into the light.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

"Thank you," Lydia demurely acknowledged the skeleton's- whose name she still did not know- compliment, all the while eyeing Betelgeuse with something akin to concern. _What was wrong with him?_ He wasn't moving, or talking, or- or doing anything! Did he not like her dress? _Not that his judgment held any weight in that arena_, she reminded herself, remembering the lace and tulle monstrosity he once conjured for her. She would have kept it for sentimental value alone had Barbara not needed to take scissors to the thing in order to get her out of it.

Nonetheless, for some stupid reason his opinion mattered to her and so she spared a self-conscious glance down to make sure that the fabric was settled around her properly and nothing was out of place. But then he found his voice again and before she knew it they were arm in arm, marching down the path of the sacred- _if that term even applied here-_ bonds of matrimony.

It was blindingly bright in here. So much so that the two of them stuck out like a sore thumb against the luminous backdrop. Though the birds were shrill, there was a haunting harmony to their screeching, ugly and lulling all at once. The writhing marble and gold sandworms that framed the priest didn't inspire any feelings of guilt or shame, not like the ones in her dreams did. They were exquisite and terrible. She wanted to run her hands all over them, to draw them, to keep them as her own so that she could stare at them whenever she wanted and admire their atrocious beauty.

So distracted was Lydia staring on in awe at her impossible wedding venue that it was a shock to her when the dead man at her side nudged her, an expectant look on his face. "…?"

_Oh!_ The priest was staring at her too! Was he just saying something? It was her turn, wasn't it?

_Was it?_

"I-I'm sorry, could you say that again please?" She requested, her voice barely above a whisper, the apples of her cheeks dusting pink. It was embarrassing to be caught lost in her daydreams at such a dire moment while being watched by that many people.

The priest repeated the question; slowly, methodically, and unfazed by anything. "Do you, Lydia Elisabeta Deetz, take this man to be your husband, until death and beyond?"

"I do," she answered properly without a moment's hesitation. The way she promised she would. The way all little girls imagine they will one day.

_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _

It was blindingly bright nearly, indeed. The man at her side looked like a washed out Instagram filter had struck his features – and just for a moment, a singular moment, he looked …. alive. Maybe like he did when he was of the flesh, indeed. It's a fleeting thing, and Lydia only catches it like a flicker once he nudges her and she looks at him.

He wasn't rushing this time, or harassing the priest to hurry. No, in this weird liminal space between two worlds that he opened they have all the time they want. Their witnesses have moved up behind them, following them into this strange almost foggy white room, standing on either corner of the isle. The Monster's girlfriend sniffles loudly.

Once she says her vow, clearly, the ghost can taste freedom. She did it. She _really did it._ There are other things churning in his brain that he'd like to taste, too, but he's trying to focus in the moment. The priest finally addresses him, and he gets on with the show.

"Yeah, yeah, of course. I do. Sure."

"Then you may place the ring on her finger." He does, carefully – she flinches when he touches her, and he notices her bruising in the pale light. It takes a little bit of finagling – her finger is slightly swollen. Usually, he'd just change the size of the ring but he can't in this instance – his magic wouldn't work on the peculiar metal that has red tape and rules attached to it miles long. He gets it as far as he can without injuring her further, his own face an awkward grimace. She returns the favor, tremulously, the golden band sliding onto one of his still grubby fingers. He can feel her touch, and she's sweating. If he could be reassuring, he would be – but alas.

"Then by the powers invested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

A rumble of thunder suddenly shakes the entire room. An arc of lightning shoots above them with a crackling hiss – no, more than just one. Many. They light the creatures flying above them in a ghastly pallor. A tremendous power surges, making the air in the room almost stifling and the pressure drop. The priest disappears in a puff of flame as the chairs fall away into nothingness. The light in the room turns a sickly green, momentarily, the lightning increases. The air is ominous and rank.

And then, just as soon as it had started, the room clears back into its bright whiteness. Beetlejuice looks around suspiciously. Is that it? He doesn't feel different. He frowns, briefly, but then looks to Lydia and attempts a reassuring smile…perhaps with only partial success.

White puffy clouds fill the floor where the chairs once stood, and out of them a familiar honk noise sounds. _HEEP HEEP!_ It's a cheerful noise, and the rumble that replaces the ominous thunder is something from a….a vehicle? A clamoring, noisy, rumbling vehicle that pierces the floor's foggy cloud layer in the same place where the priest once stood. The car is a big-finned mauve and green monstrosity. It looks like something out of the 1950's, all shiny with chrome accents and happy warm headlights that seem inviting. The plush interior and steering wheel are clean and almost brand new looking – the ride seems _far too luxurious_ for Beetlejuice to own….but there it is. The ghost breathes a sigh of relief. "Ride's here. Ready to go?"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

_"Then by the powers invested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."_

The instantaneous thunder unsettled but didn't frighten her. Startled, she instinctively clung to the side of the taller, solid mass beside her and clenched her eyes shut, thoughtlessly seeking protection. But then everything was still again and when she opened her eyes Lydia found that the supernatural storm had dissipated just as quickly as it raged, having stayed _just _long enough to embarrass her.

Again.

Flustered, Lydia pulled back from her husband and swiftly put a few feet between them, turning back to face him just in time to catch his amused grin. Before she had a chance to mumble a quick _shut up_ and wipe that stupid smile off his face, she was interrupted… by a car? Lydia gazed on in disbelief at the loudly colored antique. It looked like it belonged in either a car show or an art gallery where it could remain static and admired- not up and rearing and ready to wreak havoc.

_"Ride's here. Ready to go?"_

What? Go where exactly? She fulfilled her end of the bargain. This was it, wasn't it? Weren't they supposed to part ways here? For reasons beyond her comprehension, this thought inspired a sinking sensation in her chest.

_"Go?"_ She mouthed without actually speaking, confused and torn and not at all ready to make any more life-changing decisions. Suddenly, there was a rhythmic thumping sound; once, twice, three times it pounded, sounding muffled and far away.

"Pumpkin?" She could barely discern her father's voice through the haze of the ethereal domain. "Pizza's here! Come eat!"

She could tell Betelgeuse no, she didn't want to go anywhere. She could stay home and eat a disappointing dinner of mozzarella flavored cardboard, surrounded by people who only pretended to love her out of obligation. She could fall asleep alone, rereading the same Stephen King book she'd read a thousand times before waking up and going to a school where no one even liked her, much less acknowledged her existence.

She _could _do these things.

"I'm not hungry!"


	3. The Storm

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

He refrains from chuckling at her as she winds up clinging to him but he definitely can't keep the amused expression off his face over it. _This is going to be fun_. His attention turns to the witnesses shortly after and sends them all home with a rapid snap before they can protest.

She withdraws fussily and he opens the car door for her in the meantime, catching her confused expression over his request.

"Go," he confirms, gesturing to the vehicle seats, "As in, leave. Vamoose. Scram. Skedaddle. Decamp. Depart. You can go anywhere babes. Don't you want to see the Netherworld? C'mon- it'll be Tha Wintah Rivah Nethahworld Tour for tha newlywedded bride!" He affects the same intonation as he did when he put Charles' boss and her wife through the ceiling for effect, holding out his arms and grinning enticingly. He's back in his striped suit which can only mean one thing: mischief.

He flicks his attention to the pounding at Lydia's door after his little pitch, though, one eyebrow raised. Right. Parents. Lydia sends Charles away, however, much to the ghosts' relief. With a flick of his wrist, he starts the wall closing again slowly, and it begins to do so with a churning grinding sound. As it slips almost fully closed there's a dual scream – one from poor Charles, and the other from poor Delia.

He might have put some snakes in that pizza.

You know. The dowry.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

Fortunately for Betelgeuse, Lydia was conveniently deaf to Delia and her father's screams, already settling herself into the passenger side of the vehicle. She pulled her legs up into the seat to sit Indian style- the way she always sat in cars, her own little quirk. The excess skirts were gathered into her lap, as well as the bouquet before she made sure to strap the seatbelt across her chest. Who knew how safe of a driver he was?

"I like your friends."

Lydia offered the nonsequitor as he climbed into the driver's side, not knowing what else to say. It was suddenly abundantly clear to her that she knew almost nothing about the man next to her, and vice versa.

"How old are you?" She blurted out suddenly before the car could start moving again, carrying them to their destination- _wherever the Hell that was supposed to be._ His mention of the Neitherworld certainly cemented her decision to go with him, but that didn't mean she knew any more about the supernatural realm than she did about him. Mr. and Mrs. Maitland steadfastly refused to answer any of her questions about it, fearful of her suicidal tendencies. She was aware of the waiting room, the system of caseworkers, and the fact that a woman named Juno was theirs. Of anything else, Lydia was completely ignorant.

Realizing that her inquiry came out a tad more brusque than she intended, Lydia retracted. "I mean, I know you're old- as in, you died a long time ago _old- _but-" she groaned in frustration, having trouble voicing this question in a way that was deemed polite enough to her standards, and focused her gaze on the drifting fog outside her window. "How old were you when you died? I'm sixteen. My birthday is March 8th. I'm a Pisces." She finished with a list of practical facts about herself, hoping that this would inspire him to cut the bullshit for once and just give her a straight answer.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

The ghost chuckled, the sound of those screams certainly reached him – but he was listening for them. Jerk. He hopped into the driver's seat, sans seatbelt but only for a few moments. Despite looking like a fairly regular vehicle, the car slides the safety feature around the ghost nevertheless, leaving him to grumble a dismissive, "Fine fine," under his breath. The car honks cheerily as Lydia turns to him and finally engages him.

_I like your friends._

"Friends!" the ghost cries, "I don't have any friends. Those useless punks I brought to the wedding are just…" he grumbles, "Suckers. Acquaintances. Losers. I know them, sort of. Well, I live with some of them. Well, they live with me, I let them hang around me. Don't get too friendly with them. They aren't worth your time." And they're….._nice_. Shudder.

_How old are you? I know you're old—-_

The ghost, who now has sunglasses on for absolutely no reason at all, lowers them to look at her. "It isn't polite to ask a lady her age," he retorts, "And I'm not old!" he cries, indignantly, "I was like….. twenty-two when I bit the big one. Like …. Twenty three." he pauses, seeing if she'd buy it. By her look, she isn't buying it. "Okay, like…. forty-two. Ya happy?" grumble! "I lost track a long time ago. I'm in my prime, got it? I've got the Charles Atlas seal of approval." _Did the car just seal bark in assent?_

He doesn't elaborate on when he died, of course. By some of the slang he uses, probably sometime in the 1950s, but it could have easily been around the age of the Black Plague – or, easily enough, just ten years ago. His salesman pitch attitude and the "Guide" outfit he sports could have also been in the 1920s to 1910. It's almost impossible to pin down and the ambiguity leaves a lot of intrigue as to where he picked up his mannerisms if one or more dates are accurate.

And then she rambles. Teenagers. It's cute, actually, this time and it makes the ghost smile. So she's a Pisces. He's often used the Zodiac to pick up chicks, using a ridiculously lame line about various types that he'd switch up. He grins at her age though. That's a big reason of why he likes her. He likes 'em young. Fresh. Naive. Untouched. _Perv_.

"I've been told I'm a Leo," he replies, conversationally, fondly remembering the cooing Dante's Inferno girls telling him thusly many years back. He doesn't mention this, of course, but they were all postulating very cutely post-coitus, exclaiming that he was so fierce he must be the sign of the lion. "And you're a Pisces, huh? You must be a C major scale….allllll natural." Groan.

The clouds around them were dissipating and the white plunged into an inky purple blackness. Once Lydia looked properly secured herself, the ghost hit the gas and plunged the car downwards – revealing the fact that they had been floating in some sort of liminal space above the Neitherworld itself. Despite having no road underneath it, the flying vehicle _screeeees_, Beetlejuice laughs loudly, that high pitched manic gleeful noise triumphantly and off they go. From this height, Lydia can see the bizarre world of the dead spreading out beneath her. Craggy highways that disappear into nothingness tangle far below, the lights of many odd vehicles blasting along them, some caught in snarls of traffic. There is no landscape exactly – just arranged chunks of land that have no bottom that appear to make up portions of the place. The sky isn't really a sky exactly, and true daylight never seems to reach this strange world. If she squints, she can see that the tiny figures walking the streets are an assortment of monstrous shapes – some simply dead, some skeletal, some animalistic, some fully abstracted.

* * *

_Lydia's** P.O.V.** _

_"Friends! I don't have any friends."_

"Hmm," Lydia had hummed, entirely unconvinced by his posturing, "they may not be _your _friends, but you're definitely _their _friend." This response, insightful and irrefutable, belied a wisdom beyond her years.

When she was finally able to pry his age out of him, a deep color crept along the high lines of her cheekbones. _He's older than my father._ She was still reeling from this through his lame line and concession of being a Leo- _like he even needed to tell her._ She had him pegged as a self-absorbed lion from day one. Of course, Lydia already knew that he was much, much too old for her, but the confirmation was foreboding all the same.

Then, the car was descending, the incandescent scene around them melted away, and all thoughts of propriety, right, and wrong fled from her mind. There was a brief floating sensation before her internal organs shifted up- the seatbelt the only thing keeping her in place- as they plummetted down, down, down, into the abyss.

Lydia loved amusement parks. Who didn't? The junk food, the clowns, the multitude of opportunities to capture amazing photos, the fact that her father and Delia would always jump at the chance to drop her off with a wad of cash and leave her to her own devices for the day. Contrary to what after-school specials might have one believe, Lydia preferred it this way. She was never a fan of having to submit to unspoken arbitrary social cues. Like keeping up with mandatory small talk, asking each other about their days regardless of the fact that no one involved could give any less of a shit about the answers they received. Some of her favorite memories were formed strolling unattended through the New York State Fair with a tuft of cotton candy and her camera, taking photos and deciding which rides were worth waiting in line for.

The rides were the best. However, there was a special place in her heart for rollercoasters; the steep drop, the wind in her hair, the thrill of being that close to death without being in any danger of actually reaching it.

This was better than that. In truth, there was no comparison.

This was real. This was _really, really_ happening. She was actually careening through limbo inside of an overgrown hotwheel with her deceased husband, on their way to- _she could only presume-_ celebrate their recent nuptials. Instantly, she felt a pang of regret for not bringing her camera, her fingers twitching subconsciously for the snap button.

"Why would you ever want to leave this place?" She breathed in wonder, hands pressed against the glass, a fine mist coating the window where her warm breath kissed its surface. Lydia now understood with startling clarity exactly why Adam and Barbara kept her in the dark.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

"Well if they could _stop _being my friends, that'd be great. Anytime. Sooner the better," the ghost grouses, unsuccessfully having convinced Lydia that he doesn't need _anybody_. He's a lone wolf, Dottie. A rebel.

The difference in age between himself and Lydia doesn't seem to phase him. He likes it. He's young enough, right? He's handsome enough, anyway.

If Lydia only knew, the Neitherworld was a lot like a carnival. A weird, twisted carnival of the dead. But oh – oh, the nasty paperwork that came along with being deceased. It was worse than any funeral home and a hundred times more complex and restrictive.

The car banks to the left, giving her an excellent view of some very peculiar landmarks. As she presses herself to the glass and wonders why he'd ever leave, the ghost takes a moment to reply.

"Well babes," he starts to explain, "It isn't as fun as it seems at first. And it takes you a long time to be able to even get here," wherever here is, "you've read the handbook….takes about two hundred years of hanging around the place you died or had attachment to. Takes that long for the office to process your paperwork. You get three visits with your caseworker only. And those sandworms?" he shifts uncomfortably, "They make sure ya stay put."

It seems as though he's considered her something of a careful ally by this point. After all, they're married now. The car dives again, and out of nowhere a beach spanning the horizon seems to appear beneath them. "But….there's….caveats. Tits and Tightwad, you know, the Maitlands – they died by accident, so they get to roll on into this place without much issue after they're done haunting your house. Lucky bastards."

He carefully navigates the rumbling car to land in the sand beneath them, it is a bit of a jostle but he manages it without too much issue. The ghost drums the steering wheel for a moment after the sand and car settles, his brows furrowed, and he looks at Lydia, "But us — I mean, those that ah… took our life in our own hands, let's say? Civil servitude for allllllll eternity. Until we turn inta skeletons and then we fade away into dust." He waggles his fingers for dramatic effect, opens his door and steps out onto the beach. He takes a deep breath, smacks his lips in satisfaction, and ambles around the other side of the car to let Lydia out. He's got some politeness in there. Somewhere.

He leans his arms on the door once it opens and faces her, grinning, "But, as you probably guessed, they can't keep me in a boring old office. They _tried_. But if you read that handbook, it's a novel thing, yanno? They have a lot of loopholes they haven't quite tidied up," the grin gets wider, and nastily mischievous, "Can't keep a good dog down, babes. I found much more _interesting _lines of work."

He pulls away from the car door and gestures to the beach. "Welcome! To Tar Beach. One of the prettiest spots in the Neitherworld. I figured ya might have a lot of questions…. this is a pretty good place for me to try and answer 'em." This beach, it seems, is empty. It spreads out on either side and far into the horizon, looking almost like a fully realized place instead of the strange plugs of land floating in the middle of nowhere. The sea is a strange inky black color, with skeletal creatures rising up from the muck. The ghost lights another cigarette and offers his arm.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

Overcome with excitement and fearless of the acidic, bubbling tar, Lydia ignored the offered arm and quickly closed the distance between her and the shore, eager to soak it all in. A warm breeze blew over her with each lazy, slow-moving wave that crashed upon the embankment. Crimson fabric flirted with the wind, the exorbitant train of her gown scarcely kissing amethyst-colored sand for more a split-second at a time. Her bouquet was limp in her right hand, decaying blossoms carelessly aimed at the ground. Blackened, paper-thin petals that still clung to the slightest blush of red from their glory days fell from their mantle to dance around her in erratic patterns with only the most meager of provocation from the gentle current.

The occasional skeleton floated to the surface of the vitriolic gunk, bleached white bones drifting lifelessly for brief moments- _so unlike the gallant gentleman that attended her wedding-_ before sinking back to the depths. Almost as if they were coming up for air. Lydia constructed a scenario in which they decided to go swimming one day and just… never came back.

Lydia did not miss his slip. _He killed himself-_ and he didn't want to talk about it. She didn't blame him. He would have to pry the details of her own failed suicide attempt from her cold, dead lips- _something _he could very well do, she reminded herself sardonically, a shadowy twist to her smile. The girl's sense of humor could often take a dark turn.

_"I figured ya might have a lot of questions…. this is a pretty good place for me to try and answer 'em."_

That was a hell of an offer he had just made her; unlimited questions with an implied guarantee of honesty? How could she pass that up? Immediately, a barrage of inquiries formed at the forefront of her mind, but her tongue couldn't quite settle on just one.

_Why am I even here? Why __me __and not some other girl- someone prettier, more trustworthy, less… disappointing?_

"Are you free now? For good?" Is the query that was finally deemed safe enough to fill the air between them. "I mean… that's _it _right? I don't have to do anything else?"

The real question she wanted to ask was buried in there somewhere; _am I obligated to sleep with you and will you __make __me if I find that I can't?_

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V_**

His arm spurned, the ghost chuckles with a mild sneer, putting the cigarette to his lips and inhaling. He shuts the car door and ambles along the purple sand after Lydia, one hand in his pocket casually. He may dislike it when she walks away from him, but boy does he enjoy the view as she does. Phew, lad.

He waits for her to soak it in, his patience apparently overwhelming – he had all the time in the world, now. Every second of it. All his. His brain was busily working on new schemes, anyway, and what he might do first as revenge to this horrible place for keeping him trapped for so long in red tape. He might zap the entire office to sandworm land. See how they like experiencing it instead of just reporting on it. The thought makes him grin nastily.

It also feeds into Lydia's question, and he takes a long, slow drag on his cigarette.

"Free as a bird," he replies, easily. "That's it. That was it, that was all you had to do, your part in this bargain is finito. Done. Over." He raises his eyebrow and looks askance at her, "Unless, you know, you want to change the nature of our relationship." His lips pop at the "p" end to the word. It's hard to tell if he sounds hopeful, but he does sound like maybe he's trying to be …. convincing in some way. He pulls the sunglasses back down over his face. "We could, I dunno, honeymoon in Acapulco."

He taps ash with his fingertips, "I don't know if the world is ready for me," he admits, "But ah….they're going to find out pretty soon if they are or not." That's not….ominous at all. Right?

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

At his answer, a heavyweight of trepidation slipped from her shoulders. So relieved was she that the normally shy, easily flustered Lydia was not even fazed by his flirtatious insinuations. It was not taking the girl long to acclimate to his raunchy sense of humor. All worry gone, Lydia allowed herself to fully enjoy the beach. Well aware and uncaring of how very childish this made her look, she plopped right down in the sand and dug her hands into the warm, granulated amethyst.

_"I don't know if the world is ready for me, but ah….they're going to find out pretty soon if they are or not."_

_Oh God_, Lydia thought suddenly, a foreboding sense of doom threatening to incinerate her newly found calm. _What have I done?_

"I've never been to the beach before," she offered with something akin to wonder, consciously choosing to ignore his honeymoon talk and hoping to distract from his destructive musings. The sky was a canvas of bloody reds, vivid purple, and everything in between- but there was no sun to beat down and scorch her sensitive skin. It appeared as though the heat in the area was radiating from the toxic ocean rather than from any gargantuan balls of burning gas. Lydia would tag along with her father and Delia whenever they dragged her to their vacation home in the Hamptons, but the sandy white, sunlit beaches there were not made for her enjoyment. Tragically, most sunscreens proved useless against her heliophobic flesh, rendering the girl incapable of partaking in the simple joy of a day on the beach.

_If only it was safe to swim in this stuff._ In an effort to prove her suspicions, she plucked a wrinkled petal, placed it flat on the palm of her hand, pursed her lips, and blew. As she believed it would, the delicate thing disintegrated entirely upon meeting the surface of the septic goo. Struck with curiosity, she gathered a handful of sand and scattered the glittering dust across the surface, too. It stayed there for a moment, impervious to destruction and slow moving in its sink to the bottom, creating a galaxy-like effect.

_"Deadly-voo,"_ she intoned with a whisper, ignorant to the breath-taking grin spreading across her face while she appreciated the complex beauty in this simple act. Several more times she repeated this process until she was gathering and throwing sand two hands at a time. "Do you have hurricanes here?" She questioned suddenly, taking a break from her game, eyes big with the possibilities of such an event. "Weather? Seasons? Why does _this-_" she made a wide sweep of her arms, gesturing to the precious sand and impossible ocean- "even exist? What purpose could it possibly serve? _Who _put it here?"

Now that the floodgates had opened, she couldn't close them. "And the sky! There's no sun! Or clouds! Or moon! Why is it that color? Is it day? Or is it night? Do you _have _day and night?"

Thoughtlessly she rambled on, too excited to stop. Years of pent-up curiosity were being unleashed on the poltergeist and it did not appear as though Lydia was about to stop on her own any time soon.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

As Lydia plops down onto the sand, Beetlejuice slowly walks up behind her. He looks out into the deadly surf, casually smoking, and then eventually down at her as she blows petals into the ghastly muck. He is definitely, definitely not staring down the front of her dress. Nope. Not …. Even…. A little bit.

"Nasty stuff," he says at her intonation (which internally he likes…that's a fun word, _deadly voo_), after he's mostly done having a good oogle, and sticks his foot directly into the blackish tar. There's a sizzling noise, and eventually he yelps, lifting his foot out – now nothing but bone. He wriggles his toe-bones and skeleton foot at her, "It's a little spicy but you get used to it," in an instant, his foot and boot are right back to normal.

And then she's got questions. And more questions. All the questions! He growls in reply. "I don't— no, we — _knock it off, babes!"_

He kicks sand in her direction, almost playfully, with a snarl. "I don't _know_, you're talkin' to a dead guy!" He thinks for a minute, "I sleep when I sleep and I eat when I eat, and that's all I know. But…. _hurricanes…_."

The look that spreads across his face is malicious and delighted. She might still be asking questions but at this point his mind is flipped onto other things. He reaches towards the horizon and slowly spreads his fingers, motioning his arm here and there. Off-hue clouds start to assemble, whipping into black, turbulent shapes. Arcs of lighting hit the aphotic waters far off in the horizon across the open sea, causing great jets of muck to fly into the air like acidic, destructive volcanoes. There's a deep, growling rumble. The ghosts' hair is pushed around by winds suddenly kicking up - a violent storm is growing, far out there in the open water. His hands plant on his hips in satisfaction.

"Now _that's _a hurricane."

He pauses.

_"That's a hurricane." _He blinks as if realizing what he's done, and pulls at Lydia's shoulder, "Uh, Lyds. Babes. Baberoonie. Baby. Babygirl. Sweetheart. Darling. Love of mine. We uh. We should definitely….move off this beach."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

When he kicked sand at her, she scowled and stuck her tongue out at him in a particularly immature gesture.

"What do you mean _you don't know?!"_ Lydia criticized passionately, still playing in the sand. "How can you NOT know? It's all I would be able to think about!" Were she to lift her gaze to the distance, she would have noticed the churning clouds and webs of lightning. The breeze blew strongly enough to whip her hair, but not distract from her burning curiosity- now tinged with indignation by his ignorance.

"That's not fair! There are _skyscrapers _here! Someone had to build them, which meant they had a _job _and got a _paycheck _and went home to- to-" she broke off to laugh somewhat madly, "to their _families _and paid their _bills!_ What the fuck?!"

Suddenly, a monstrous _BOOM _rattled the area, murdering the next barrage of questions fighting to get out. Without a moment's hesitation, some animal part of her already aware of the danger and which direction to look, her stare snapped up to the disturbance on the horizon. With a slackened jaw and eyes the size of the moon, Lydia sat in paralysis while the storm brewed. She could feel Betelgeuse's insistent touch on her shoulder, could hear his voice scratching at her ears, but _what could he possibly want?_ _Why was he talking to her?_ Didn't he see what was happening right in front of him?

A great wall of muck rose high above the rest, casting a shadow so tall and wide that it was already beginning to encompass Lydia despite the distance. When it crept passed her eyes, cutting off the view of the sky that moments before had held her in a state of vexation, Lydia found that she could- _and should-_ move. Right now.

Clinging to her instinct to _survive_, she was on her feet faster than she knew she was capable of, wild eyes scanning the area for salvation. Beach to her right, beach to her left, the car she didn't know how to drive sitting a terrifyingly far ways away from the shore, and… _Betelgeuse_. Small, desperate, and out of her league, she took his hand in a vice grip and flashed a pleading look up- wordlessly giving her permission for him to do whatever he needed to do.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

_There we go._ Lydia's hand was in his, and he had her. _He wishes he could save that look on her face for a thousand years. And he just might._

He grabbed her up like she weighed nothing – the ghost was actually quite physically strong for his shlubby looks, and he carefully, but very quickly tossed her over one shoulder. One hand firmly gripped on her rump, _that was no coincidence either_, he took off running down the beach. "I'd zap us out of here babes," he yelled over the sound of the now screaming wind, "I really would! But the storm – some kind of interference. Crazy fuckin' Neitherworld weather, huh?" he huffed as he hauled down the beach. _"Did you eat bricks for breakfast?!"_

The storm was practically biting their ankles, now. The ghost always seemed to be one step ahead, though, dodging great globs of muck that the clouds flung from the ocean. They landed with a splorch and a hiss all around them and the stench of them were horrible - _or maybe that's the stink of an old corpse running._ He's not running towards the car, as Lydia could see from her over-the-shoulder view. The car was getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

The darkness was almost ready to fully engulf them. The wave of blackness had reached the shore and was curling around top of them in what seemed like nearly a mile up in the air, blotting out what little eerie light was there before. It was about to smash them to pieces when Beetlejuice took a flying leap into some sort of rocky shelter, just in the very nick of time. The walls of their newly discovered rocky shelter shook violently as the wave landed, glorshing vast quantities of acidic muck past the entrance they just left behind but not following them inside. The storm rumbled on, the wind continuing to scream, but in their safe hovel, there was a more muted quiet.

The ghost put the girl down gently and wheezed, huffing, leaning on a nearby piece of what appeared to be volcanic rock for support.

"I pay _rent,"_ he finally chokes, "I p…I pay rent to a giant…. Sentient…." Huff, "….breadcrumb."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

The pandemonium rendered Lydia incapable of seeing through his guise- or paying any real attention to the firm hand clenched on her backside. It squeezed down every time his boots skidded in the sand, his rough landings jolting oxygen from her lungs. A stream of acid just barely missed disfiguring her nose and she yelped, clenching her fists and burying her face in the material of his jacket. The temperature increased drastically, inspiring a thin sheen of sweat across her alabaster flesh. Briefly, Lydia feared it might hinder him and he would drop her- but his grip was unyielding and before she knew it, she was back on her feet again.

She stumbled a bit, despite his careful depositing of her person, and latched onto the cave wall for equilibrium. It was cool to the touch. The sensation was savored as unbearable heat still drafted from the direction of the entrance in sporadic bursts. She pressed her back flat to the stone, breathing hard even though she hadn't needed to exert herself physically. Not really.

It was dark in here. Stray rays of ambient light somehow managed to find their way into the damp little pit, but they were weak, the walls unreflective. She could make out the white stripes on his suit and the barest shape of his pallid face, but everything else was obscured by shadow.

His humor was lost on her in the wake of what she considered to be a near-death experience. "There were people out there," she whispered in horror, painfully aware of the tremors in her voice as it echoed across the cavern. The hurricane was sure to devastate the buildings she saw bordering the beach on their way in, filled with spirits; working their jobs, earning their paychecks, and waiting to go home to their families. "Are they… will they be… _okay?"_

They were dead and not likely to get any deader, but Lydia was unable to shake the image of the lifeless, fleshless carcasses she saw traversing the ocean, trapped in an eternal acid bath.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

"Oh, yeah – them? Uh, yeah I mean, they're all dead, so …..they'll be….fine. Just….missing skin for a little bit," the ghost explains, haphazardly and almost dismissively. "We get storms like that like….all the time. They're used to it." _Lies!_

_That storm was going to rage across half the Neitherworld. He was suppressing outright laughing, hysterical, wonderful laughter. The problem with his wife, it seems, was that she cared too much. Precious._

"It'll pass. Won't go far beyond this beach. Can't go far beyond this beach! Atmosphere is….something…something sciencey, probably," _greaaaaat job there, Ghost with the Most_. "You're smarter than I am. You'd…probably know how storms work. They'd teach you that at that fancy pants girl school, right?" _WHAT_.

Lydia could probably see his eyes glitter in the dark as he looked around. "Wellp. We're stuck for a bit, that's the reality, Lyds. Let's see what we got in this place, herrreee…eerrrr…." His last syllable drifted off, and he clapped both of his palms like on those "Clap-On, Clap-Off" commercials. The entire ceiling of the cave seemed to flicker on, but with what light source isn't clear. It simply left them in an ambient, lurid glow much like the atmosphere outside.

However, _what _it lights up is the kicker. The cave isn't exceptionally large, but it is vast in height and what coils around its edges is what can only be described as an ancient sandworm skeleton. It's massive, and the bones that make up all of its contorted multitudinous ribs create something of a weird pergola from the middle of the cave stretching towards the back and sides of the place. The floor is the same purplish sand, soft and strangely warm. There's….a blanket, tucked neatly in the middle of the ribs, and a….candle that is _lit…_.and….a wine bottle…aaaand a handbasket which appears to be filled with….mysteriously….fresh….food.

"Looks like we mighta interrupted somethin'," the ghost says, dreamily, sending a snaky grin over to Lydia, as if she'll totally buy it. "Wellllll, shouldn't let this go to waste probably, who knows how long we'll be in here, _weird_, right?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

Light illuminated the area, her gaze fell to the disgustingly romantic setup, and her heart consequently sunk into her gut. She felt sick.

"You are so _full of shit,"_ she hissed, holding back involuntary tears of outrage. Immediately, she turned her back on him to march back toward the exit to the cave. Fuck him. He was a lying, manipulative bastard and she would rather take her chances with the storm. Unfortunately, the gusts of scorching heat blasting from the mouth made her departure impossible. Seeing no other option, she mimicked her earlier childish gesture and plopped right down in the sand; front facing the exit, back facing his failed seduction attempt, and arms crossed stiffly over her chest.

His powers were working just fine. He could get them out of there if he wanted to- but he _didn't _want to. He wanted to trick and lie and maneuver his way into her pants without even having the decency to provide her with the bare minimum- the feeling of desirability. She didn't feel sexy, or beautiful, or loved, or any of the things you were supposed to feel when a man wanted you. She felt _stupid_.

Was this his idea of a _date?_ If yes, would it really have been that hard to just _ask her?_ Like a normal girl? Didn't she deserve _at least_ that? "Coward," she grit out, glaring at the sand while wiping away a stray tear, uncaring of whether or not he heard her pointed insult.

"I want to go home. Right now, Betelgeuse."

It was the first time his name had passed her lips since she summoned him. Deep in the ghost's soul, he felt a barely there, terrifyingly familiar _tug_. The acidity in her demand rivaled that of the storm's, leaving no room for debate. Sadly, Betelgeuse often made a habit of sticking himself in places where there was no room for him.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

_She was furious. What?!_

What went wrong? The ghost re-traced his steps. Okay. Married her. Check. Showed her a pretty place. Check. Put her in danger and then saved her life. Check. Then, brought her to phase four, Romantic Beach Cave where she was going to cling to him and he was going to reassure her, and then she was totally going to go bananas for him. He counts on his fingers, vaguely, as she storms off to pout.

He looks genuinely perplexed, his brow rumpled, his stance one of confusion. This was supposed to have fully worked out in his favor. _Chicks, am I right?_

So, like a confused bull, his frustration at his own inability to figure this situation out turns to annoyed anger, of course. Processing emotions wasn't his strong suit even a little._ "Whaaaaaaaaaaaat?!"_ he yowls, defensively, his tone injured. "You don't like picnics? You don't like sandworms. You don't like…uh, being trapped in caves? You don't like hurricanes? You don't like gross romantic stuff." He snaps his fingers as if seizing on a grand idea, "I can fill the room with snakes babes, just say the word."

Then, she calls him a coward. His lips twist in a funny way. He just _saved her from a deadly hurricane._ _Okay, he started it, but that takes some bravery too right?_ The word twists around in his gut. Ow. That actually hurt. _Why would she call him that? _

None of his questioning seems to really get him any answers, and she demands to go home, adding further to his stupefaction. And then….

….And then she says his name. And it yanks. Pulls. That deep gut sensation that he finds far too familiar. His brain whirls. There's silence from him for a good moment – which is unusual. This would normally indicate a building rage, but instead, he's got a hand placed on his belly, eyes wide. _She still has the ability to call him back._ Why? Did the marriage not work? Wait….there was that one, tiny, itty bitty clause about ….virginity. But she's sixteen. There's no possible way—–_he covered all his bases. He made sure…._

The ghost hiccups. His priorities suddenly shift like a freight train running off the tracks. He's suddenly overwhelmed with panic. "B-babes, babes…..I know you're really ….really angry, and ….I fully understand," _he does not_, "And I'm s… _shit _….sorry? Sorry. I'm a coward. I'm …I'm whatever, scum, the worst, I know," His legs have gone weak, and he collapses into the sand nearby on his rump. "This is…going to be a ….really…weird question and I know you want to go home, and I'll send you there in …. Just a minute, you can go back to your boring life and school and girlfriends and whatever and I'll leave you alone forever, _forever _okay?" He says the last part firmly, suddenly intensely serious. _He means every part of that_. He lifts a finger, "But….have you….gone with anyone besides…well, I know we're not really, but….besides me before? Fooled around? Something like that?"

The question is absolutely invasive and peculiar, and it might earn him a beating instead of anything else. But he has to ask. He has to know. _She controls his destiny now and she can't know about it._ The thought is absolutely terrifying in a way he can't put together exactly quite yet in his brain. Again, her feelings are being pushed aside for his issues. Marriage _blows_.

_Lydia's P.O.V. _

_What the fuck?! _A sneer of disgust curled her upper lip and several more droplets of moisture leaked from her eyes unbidden. "Oh, _yeah_," she answered with a cruel laugh. Or was it a sob? "I'm a big slut. I've slept with lots of guys."

It was a horrible lie. She knew it. He knew it. She knew that he knew it. She didn't care. "Deepest apologies that you won't get to deflower me, but _don't worry_," she reassured with mock sincerity, smiling at him like she really meant what she was saying. The illusion was tarnished by the crystalline tears streaming down her cheeks. "I'm sure there are plenty of virgins out there you can seduce. You're not completely terrible at it, you shouldn't have much trouble." Point adequately made, all pretense was dropped and she was a wounded viper again. _"Now take me home."_

All of her muscles were tense, coiled, and twitching, as though she were still debating whether or not it would be worth it to throw herself to the mercy of the storm.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

Her reply cuts deep. The ghost flails his arms uselessly, and then drops them into his lap. Ow. Owwwww ow ow ow ow, ow. _The living were absolutely impossible._

"No, no," he finally admits in a moan, defeated, his shoulders slumping. He inches himself on his ass closer to her, as if his proximity will somehow help him reason with her. He doesn't get too close, knowing that it probably isn't a good idea at this very moment. He looks at her, searchingly, "That wasn't…that wasn't…. the point."

He pauses, and twists his fingers, picking at them. It seems as though he's thinking exceptionally hard on what to do next. "I'm gonna take you home, but give me a second. _I'm not good at this._ You chicks are always ten steps ahead of us dudes, you know? I don't know how to say nice things, or do nice things. This," he gestures, "is as close as I get, and it wasn't to get your dress off. I just wanted to do somethin' nice so you'd stick around….and I'm _not nice_ – when I say I don't have any friends, I'm not lying. I don't know why those idiots hang out with me. I fuck with them constantly."

His voice is somber, defeated. He drops his darkly circled eyes from her, and looks at his boots which he's cuffed into the sand.

"This place is too weird, and I wasn't lying about that either. I don't have any answers to your questions because I don't know the answers. For a long time I was stuck in that office, forced to help Juno in whatever…shitty boring thing she had to do. Woman loves her job. I don't. I don't like being dead, Lyds. I don't. I did a stupid fucking thing _once _…. _once _and I can't take it back. I can't take back the days that I wasted fighting with—-" he stops himself, and then picks at the sand, still glowering downwards, "—the people who cared about me. They're all dead now too, but I can't find them in this place and I doubt they'd even want to see me again. I don't even know how long I've been here. So I worked the rules, I worked them, and I worked them over hundreds of years, until I finagled myself into that weird name situation…you know, you say my name three times? Bloody Mary had a similar setup. Anyway, that's of course where you come in."

He levels his gaze upwards, from hooded eyes. "Our marriage was the final step in my freedom so I could reclaim everything I had. My life. This whole place is designed to fuck you over, so I had to make sure I read everything about this …. marriage deal. No more names, no more control over me, right? Except, just like everything else in this dump, there's a clause."

He stares at her, his face deadly serious.

"The clause, of course, is that the person I marry has to be untouched. Now, I figured due to your age, this may have not been an issue._ I was guessing, babes._ But here's how it works now," the ghost takes a long, uneasy breath and leans in as if telling her a secret, _"You can banish me. You're the only one that can."_

He leans back, frowning. "So no, it doesn't have to do with you being as big of a slut as you like, or having had been one in the past – I've known a great many sluts, myself I count among them, and they're some of the hardest working, finest people I know. And you're not a slut, okay? I know you're not. _It's this place._ It makes sick, twisted rules based on a gal's purity. Remember when I asked you 'why' all those years ago? I meant it, knowing what I know."

He opens up his arms, "So do your worst. I deserve it," he adds, with a quirky grin, "You're angry with me and I earned it. I tried to tread the line between our clear and cut deal and something else – can you blame me, being faced with who you are, and what you look like? You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, even when you cry. I like it when you cry and that probably says something about me, and I know I'm not supposed to. I didn't even kiss you when we said 'I do' – and I've only kissed you once since I got here which I've gotta tell ya, that's been rough. But I get it. I'm a creep and a loser. I always have been babes." And he smiles, genuinely, a weird brightness to it, "And a coward, too."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

_Oh, wow._ Lydia watched him with wide eyes, tears drying as he talked… and talked… _and talked_. He was saying…_ a lot of things._ His sheer, unexpected honesty was disarming. It shattered the adamantine guard she was in the midst of constructing.

She couldn't quite hold onto just one emotion, they coursed through her so rapidly: relief that he wasn't interested in her solely because of some patriarchal concept of purity, guilt for assuming that he prescribed to such sexist views, rage that the faceless, nameless authority of the afterlife would even dare to include a clause of that nature in a marriage contract, and a deeply unfair wave of shame that she had inadvertently exposed her darkest secret to him. He had no business knowing things like that about her and it was all her fault. She couldn't even blame him.

Lydia couldn't help the spike of curiosity that resurged at his mention of _the _Bloody Mary, but shelved any questions about that little anecdote for a less serious moment- and there _would _be less serious moments in the future. Many of them. _Beautiful_, he called her, so genuinely. She couldn't even bring herself to be disturbed by his dark confession- _the delight he took in her tears-_ though was aware that she probably should have been.

She wasn't just an easy lay to him. He wanted to kiss her and take her on dates. He _actually, really_ wanted her to be his wife- and everything that entailed. This revelation was as terrifying as it was gratifying. She didn't speak until she was sure he was finished, unwilling to interrupt this rare show authenticity.

"No," she denied, shaking her head and wiping away the last of her tears on her shoulder, "no. You're not a loser. You're actually really cool. _I'm _a loser. I don't have any friends except dead people- and you know, it's not like they really have a choice. They _have _to get along with me." Mr. and Mrs. Maitland loved her genuinely, but Lydia would never be able to shake that inkling of doubt._ "God,"_ she huffed bitterly, "I'm too stupid to even recognize when a guy likes me." Not that this was something that happened often. Or ever.

Lydia felt like the biggest bitch in the world. Here it was, the romantic date she had many times imagined being asked on, yearned for girlishly while jealously observing the other girls her age who had no problems collecting suitors. And what was she doing with it? Crying, acting like a child, and slinging insults at the one who gave it to her. _Stupid_.

"I'm sorry," she conceded, wrapping her arms around her legs, resting her chin on top of her knees, and refusing to meet his gaze again. "I ruined our date."

Of course, if Lydia had _known _that this was a date, she would not have reacted thusly, but guilt and regret drowned her previous ire. All that was visible in her path to reconciliation were her own shortcomings.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

As her emotions rollercoaster, she seems to be getting a good understanding of what its like to be _him_, in a way. His hyperactive personality is some kind of counter-act to being dead – ensuring he feels, still, ensuring entropy won't pull him deeper into the earth. It's why most of them work, in fact, why many of the dead have jobs and productive habits, because after a certain point _what else do you have?_ The dead can't get sick, or injured, or disfigured, really. You live in a state of suspension like someone hit the pause button right when your life ended. So, just like in life, you need a purpose.

He listens to her and rubs the back of his head awkwardly. He's starting to get a clearer picture of her the more he's honest with her. She hasn't made fun of him, and she hasn't pushed him away whenever he's been upfront about his dealings – even when she could have, even when she could have called him stupid and misguided. _Which he was. And she hasn't banished him yet._ So he keeps talking.

"Oh yeah, the….the Maitlands," he mumbles, "No babes, I ….I think they genuinely like you. Ya know, I learned a lot in that attic. Stupid…stuff, mostly, because both of them are complete idiots who're really bad at everything _and they double-crossed me twice_ but Barb never had kids of her own, I think in a weird way she adopted you. Emotionally, at any rate. Which would have eventually gotten real weird but I don't think anyone really thought that far. Anyway, that was the one not-idiotic thing they thought to do, in the moment, because you needed them."

The ghost shrugs, "And yeah, I'm….I'm terrible at the whole feelings thing. I show, I don't always tell, and I've been dead for a _really long time_. So, this seemed like a really good idea. I have no frame of reference babes, I watch romance movies and those are gross - that's all I've got. I'm tryin' to keep my word to m'self and get back what I had …. You shouldn't be apologizing to me. I know I'm not a good guy. I don't know if I ever was, really. I'm tryin' to win you over so maybe this won't be so inconvenient for you."

_Please, please like me_. He's also determined, now, to see to it that she's not hurt again. Because she does seem so very hurt – like this had all happened to her before in some weird way, and went much worse. For once, the ghost has it that he's going to put her into the picture, somehow, some way, if she'll have him. She needs protection, not abject chaos. He can try for the former, but he can't wish away the latter - he is the embodiment of said.

Beetlejuice scoots a bit closer and puts one hand on Lydia's crossed ones on her knees. Still mouldy and grubby as always and almost twice the size of hers, his gold ring glitters in the dim light. "You didn't ruin anything. I ruin things. That's like who I am as a professional. I'm great at it, babes, I nearly killed your dad, remember?" He half-chuckles, "Forgive me? I can't promise I won't fuck everything up in like ten minutes. I can't. But I'll try to figure this thing out. Okay? This thing we have. Or don't have. And if someday you really do want me to go away forever, I'll do it. My death is in your hands. Literally."

_No pressure there, Lyds. Also, you might want to drop the miniature gravestone with his name on it that you're holding now, its sort of buggy._

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

His reassurances about Adam and Barbara didn't hold any new information. She knew that they longed for a child while they lived. She knew that parenting her was the best they were ever going to get. The idea that she wasn't enough for them- _for anyone-_ however, was deeply ingrained in her psyche and would likely never leave. Nevertheless, the things he said sounded good and she liked hearing them. If he thought Mr. and Mrs. Maitland truly loved and valued her, then there must have been some merit to the idea.

"I forgive you," she answered easily, without any hesitation, _as if she was capable of anything else_. Her smaller hand twitched beneath his like she wasn't sure what to do with it, but ultimately stilled and accepted his hold without a fight. Until she felt something wriggling in her palm. Alarmed, she sat up straight, shook his hand away, and uncurled her palm. An ordinary individual would have yelped and immediately tossed the infested hunk of rock across the room.

Lydia gasped in unexpected delight.

_"Oh,"_ she extolled breathily, too emotionally drained to express the full depth of her amazement. "I've never seen _that _breed before," she acclaimed, lowering her palm to the sand so that the large, black and white striped centipede could make a peaceful escape. As soon as it touched the amethyst dust, it burrowed away and out of sight. "I don't think it even exists." She curled up her fingers again, enclosing them around the little headstone- _keeping it._ "Did you _make _it? Can you do that?"

She didn't really need the confirmation. Of course he could. He conjured a carnival and a shotgun wedding in her living room at a moment's notice just two years prior. Before answer the question at any real length, an angry growl filled the space between them, emanating from her belly. She flushed slightly at the sound of it and curled herself a bit tighter again, abashed.

"I _do _want to go home. I'm hungry, and tired-" _good God, she had been awake for so long on so little sleep-_ "and my knee hurts, and I want to take a bath… but," honey eyes flashed up at him briefly, the cinnamon specks dappled across her irises made larger and more vibrant from all her pretty tears, "I'll come back here another day. If you take me."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

The ghost's eyes widen slightly. He knew that Lydia was an odd girl, but the way she handles having a giant, if admittedly prettily patterned centipede of sorts crawling all over your hands is surprising. _Does she like insects? Was that why she cringed when he munched that roach during their first meeting?_ The ghost watches her keep the silly tombstone charm with interest.

"Yeah, babes," he says, quietly, "I can make pretty much anything. I can _do _pretty much anything. I can change how I look. I can change how you look—" he trails off as her stomach growls. Oh. Right. She's alive. She needs things like….food, and sleep. Regularly, even. And she's still hurting. Ah – dummy.

Cursing inwardly at his ignorance, the ghost nods and creates an ordinary household door in the wall of the rock. It glows slightly, indicating his magic touch.

"That oughtta to take you home," he says, and stands, offering her a hand to get up. "Oh, and one more thing," he shuffles over to where he left all the picnic goodies and grabs the basket, shuffling back over to her rapidly. It's covered in a cloth decorated with bones. "There's some scream tarts and spaghetti and eyeballs, and boo-berry pancakes in there. I didn't know what you like eating – er, I sort of have forgotten what live people eat. Or when they eat. Or how much they eat. Or when they eat. So….uh. Good luck with these. And uh, bourbon. I know I like that still. I'll just take that," he pulls a bottle of the stuff out from beneath the cloth and slides it into his inner jacket.

He looks into those eyes as she queries a return trip and he loses track of his thoughts. He wants to squeeze her breathless. "Yeah. Y-yeah. You can come back anytime you want." _And, he can go there, unless she banishes him._ Good. "Just….y'know, knock on your mirror. That ought to do the trick. I'll hear ya."

He looks down at her angry knee worriedly, though, once she gets up. He doesn't say much about it, but it definitely makes him visibly nervous. "Just…take care of…that. Okay? That's the one thing I can't fix. I don't want you joining me like this too soon, you have a world out there that needs you and a life that you need to live first."


	4. The Deal

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

_"Just…take care of…that. Okay? That's the one thing I can't fix. I don't want you joining me like this too soon, you have a world out there that needs you and a life that you need to live first."_

She stood at the threshold between their worlds, facing him with her back to the door, basket in arm and charm in hand. The miniature headstone would fit in well with the other knick-knacks on her bookshelf, and the food- _if it proved edible_\- was certain to be better than the below-average pizza waiting for her at home. Lydia almost implored him to pass the bottle back her way so she could take a quick swig before departing. It had been a hell of a day. As it was, she wasn't quite that comfortable with him yet.

"Will do," she promised simply in regards to both tending to her knee and calling on him through the mirror. There was a strained moment where they both stood completely still, maintaining intense eye contact. It felt like something was supposed to be happening there- _a kiss, a hug, a handshake, _something. Instead of any of those things, her lips quirked into a barely-there smile and she murmured a hesitant _goodbye _before slipping through the door- refusing her ears whatever parting he might have for her.

* * *

It felt like it had been years since her last bath. The scalding heat encompassing her completely, the cloying scent of her favorite brand of African black soap, the way she was able to drift beneath the surface and forget about the world outside of the water; it was bliss. Neither her father nor Delia seemed to notice she was even gone. They were asleep upon her return, her door still locked, bedroom undisturbed.

The scream tarts were her favorite of the haul- _the spaghetti and eyeballs went straight to the garbage, she wasn't even chancing it with that one-_ but they had to be eaten with haste. As soon as she unwrapped them from their wax paper, the blood and puss colored pastries released ear-splitting shrieks into the house, forcing her to cram the sweets down her gullet to shut them up. Her parents would have to have been truly inebriated to miss the ruckus, which they did.

Absentmindedly, Lydia hummed while she bathed until eventually, her notes found words.

_"Old death, where are you now?_  
_You've left me behind somehow,_  
_Drank deeply from your cup,_  
_Now see what I've become,"_

The girl had always liked her voice, but she was never one for singing in front of people. This was something that was uniquely hers, like her photographs. No one could speak with her voice, just like no one could see what she saw.

_"What's left but ash and burn?_  
_No last pale light to follow,_  
_Along here, to find my way._  
_I'll catch up with you one day..."_

* * *

Was it too soon to call him? This was the question on Lydia's mind all throughout school the next day. She knew the answer; yes. It had only been a day, but already the monotony of the living realm was beginning to wear on her. How could she sit there and try to read a clinical analysis about the philosophies of Aristotle and Socrates for some humdrum school assignment when she _could just go meet them if she wanted to, couldn't she?_ This was added to her mental list of questions and concerns she would have to bring to Betelgeuse's attention.

But… it was _definitely _too soon to call him. She couldn't let herself look that clingy. He was probably off enjoying his freedom. It would be wrong of her to hinder that.

"Like, oh-em_-gee_."

Lydia flinched at the sound of the voice and buried her nose deeper into her book. Her lunch tray sat pushed off and forgotten to the side, macaroni n' cheese barely picked at. A quick glance to the clock at the head of the cafeteria confirmed that there were only five minutes left in the lunch period. _Just five minutes._ Lydia could handle five minutes.

"I _cannot _believe it. Stacy, I owe you fifty bucks. I thought she'd at least break a bone. Like, get a frickin' doctor's note so we wouldn't have to look at her for a couple weeks. _Geez_." Claire sounded immensely put out, as though Lydia had somehow inconvenienced her by not being seriously injured.

"Pay up, bitch," Lydia heard an equally nasty voice reply and began rereading the same sentence a tenth time. "I told you it would take more than that. Like, we would probably need some holy water, a cross, garlic, a priest- _scratch that-_ an exorcist. To be safe."

_Just five minutes._

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Wellp.

The ghost checked his watch(es, multiple) approximately ten minutes after the door closed behind Lydia. The hurricane was continuing its course across the Neitherworld, though probably the Storm Chasers had gotten it controlled by now. Yep, there was a department for that, too.

Anyway, it had been about ten minutes, and that's about ten minutes the ghost has been _perfectly bored_ – so, it was time to see what his wifey-poo was up to. This was better than the best television show. She seemed to have forgiven him his most recent trespasses, and that's the _perfect time_ to accrue more of them.

With a snap of his fingers, he was back at the Roadhouse, in his own room, plush moldering coffin bed and all. Pulling a chipped hand mirror out of one of the sides, he settles in and twists imaginary knobs on the side of it to "tune in" to her activities.

Ten minutes in Neitherworld time, of course, is quite different than living time. By the time he checks in, she's already in the tub, and the ghost blinks his dark-rimmed eyes and squints. "Oh-" he mumbles to himself and adds an entirely too-pleased-with-the-view chuckle,_ "Hellllllo~."_ Sure, this was a gross invasion of her privacy and he knows she'd absolutely have _an attack_ if she ever found out, but this way….she can't, really. Betelgeuse kicks his legs up, picks his nose absently, grunts, and vaguely fondles the mirror, twisting it here and there to get some really nice angles on poor unaware Lydia.

In the pale light of that small but surprisingly pleasantly renovated bathroom, she looks like a siren; her thick locks falling like a black waterfall over gently sloped shoulders. In places, she is sweetly soft, and others she is deliciously angular. Her back curves gracefully as she moves to wash those long limbs of hers, and in the back of his mind the ghost considers turning himself into her sponge. Instead, he just growls to himself, happily.

It takes him a moment of oogling to realize she's making a noise of some sort. Her lilting, dulcet tones eventually shiver through the mirror's surface as if from far away, and the ghost smacks the edges with a frustrated grunt until it comes in clearer.

_"This old death is crooked and untrue,_  
_I played your game but now I think I'm through._  
_I know what you look like,_  
_And I'll see you before long..."_

The ghost puts the mirror closer to his ear, resting his chin on a palm and actually giving up her beautiful visage to close his eyes briefly. Perhaps, in some inner fantasy, he's off dreaming that she's singing to him. It is like this that he actually falls asleep – despite not needing any, it is her voice that soothes him thus into slumber, _musica delicias habet ad pectum ferum mansuefaciendum_ – music soothes the savage breast.

* * *

The ghost wakes with a start in the wee hours of the morning. Flailing and struggling, he grabs up the mirror again, shaking it until it shows a clear picture of Lydia just waking up herself. "Man, she goes to school _early_," he remarks to himself, sourly, and promptly scrambles out of his coffin awkwardly. He goes through some sort of strange businessman routine, throwing coffee down his throat he doesn't need to consume, straightening his tie, and promptly readying himself for some form of commute. With a wave of his arm, he disappears from the Roadhouse and enters the world of the living.

He reappears exactly on his intended target, the branch of a tree outside Lydia's weirdly shaped Victorian-moderna house. He's an oddly colored scraggly cat, mostly black but with a striped tail and overly yellow eyes, teeth crookedly sticking out from feline muzzle. His whiskers twitch. It's peculiar being this….outdoors. He's not accustomed to traveling the human plane in a non-haunt situation, but it's important to him that…for some reason…he keeps an eye on her. Today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe forever. It isn't logical, but the ghost is going with his feelings it seems versus any kind of sense-making. Also, this is vastly _entertaining _– more so than destruction or mayhem.

For now.

He follows her to school, minding being seen, marveling at various things, smells, sights. It's a bit grand, and novel, and he even forgets to cause trouble as he sticks close to Lydia's trail but just enough out of sight to be ordinary.

Once she hits the school building, another tactic was surely needed. As a ghost, he couldn't be seen by most living people – but Lydia was different and he needed to hide from her. So, like any common specter, he went the safe route: invisibility.

_God school was boring. _

Agonizingly, he sat through class after class, taking up empty room, hiding in corners as different insects. Finally, lunch rolled around. He almost…. _almost _changed the lunch food into something disgusting after Lydia finished being served, but instead, he just sent a few mice into the kitchen to cause some nuisance to the women working there. It gave him mild satisfaction of a kind – the ghost did not deal well with boredom. Boredom grew in him vicious things.

And then, towards the end of the lunch period, slumped invisibly on one of the lunchroom benches, Betelgeuse can't help but overhear a voice. It's a voice that drips with malice and some form of edgy irony, which is generally considered the worst kind. It takes him a minute to understand quite what they're talking about….but it seems as though…._they_ ….were Lydia's bike trouble.

_They were the ones that hurt her. And made her late to the wedding. _

And it becomes perfectly clear, crystalline, that they had intention of hurting her again. His wife. The girl who has eyes like sadly melting honey when she cries. This, this was his. She needed to be safe, and these …. foul representations of humanity were not inclined to be on the same page, it seemed. The sensation that builds in his chest is one that he'd never felt, exactly. It feels like a hundred fires have lit all across his limbs at once. Red rage clouds his vision as she continues to speak. The last words he processes are these: "Like, we would probably need some holy water, a cross, garlic, a priest- _scratch that-_ an exorcist. To be safe."

He knows an exorcist. A _bio_-exorcist, to be exact.

Out of seemingly nowhere, the shape of something horrific begins to grow in the middle of the cafeteria. It grows quickly, striped, ghoulish. Scales, arms, legs, parts, insectine, voracious. Colossal coils slam forth, tearing a few tables in two as if they were made from balsa wood. _Everyone was going to see THIS_ and it raised the feeling of pleasure deep in his heart. Lydia's classmates shriek, wail, and run – he'd show these tiny, impudent souls who they're _really messing with._

Three heads pull outwards from one neck, hissing and rattling, groaning as they expand upwards, hampered only by the ceiling. Eyes, so many eyes, spread bulging across their monstrous visage. Rows of teeth line each mouth – so much worse than the snake he made so many years ago, jagged, almost clogging each maw. All three of them open so wide, gurgling, drooling. Almost everyone has escaped the cafeteria. Everyone, that is, except Claire and her group of friends….he's trapped them with an enormous coil. The heads rear back, seeing them as open prey.

He's going to eat them and send them to a world so much worse than death. _He's going to eat them all whole._

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

The smell hit her first. It was singularly foul; sulfur and raw sewage and the worst kind of rancid, stagnant rot. It almost made her lose the meager bit of cafeteria food she'd managed stomaching. Next came the screaming. They were the kind of shrill, blood-curdling screams that could only come from adolescent girls, the kind actresses in horror movies couldn't be paid enough to replicate. Then, she saw him. There wasn't a single moment where Lydia had any illusions about who- _what- _the creature was.

_He was a monster_. And he was out for blood.

Lydia stood frozen with paralysis as the grotesque, striped hydra decimated the lunch room, destroying everything in its path. There was no mistaking its destination; a gaggle of tan, blonde, screaming teenagers sequestered in the corner. Rapidly, each of them were snapped up by tentacles and suspended in the air above the monster's gaping maws- _it had three_. The gleam of the cafeteria's fluorescent lighting on uncharacteristically white, razor-sharp teeth knocked Lydia out of it. She had to do something and she had to do it now.

"Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse!"

In less than a split-second, he was gone. There were several sickening cracks as Claire, Stacy, and a third girl whose name Lydia had never bothered learning fell nearly twenty feet to the ground. Fearing for their lives, Lydia quickly closed the distance between she and her bullies. Stacy was shrieking incomprehensibly, sitting up and clutching her leg which was bent at a horribly unnatural angle. She would be fine, then.

The nameless girl was eerily silent. Blood pooled beneath her unmoving head. Lydia struggled through her panic to search for what little practical first aid knowledge she had. She ripped off her blazer, bundled it beneath her head to elevate it, and lowered her ear to the girl's mouth. A warm puff of breath hit her skin. She was alive. _Thank God_.

Claire was moaning low, writhing on the tile. One arm was wrapped around her middle while the other sat limp to the side, snapped like a twig. "Claire- _Claire_," Lydia urged, lifting a head of platinum blonde to rest in her lap in case she also sustained some kind of cranial trauma. Icy blue eyes fluttered, never settling on anything for more than a second. "Come on, can you hear me? What year is it? Who's the president of the United States? _Goddamnit_, answer me, _you stupid bitch!"_ This insult lacked the venom it usually carried when Lydia simply thought it. Instead, it was entrenched with desperation.

The sound of it must have struck a chord with Claire. Finally, glacial orbs found her. A cold fear filled them, so foreign to Lydia when compared to the biting malice they usually held. The blonde began to shake with terror, looking up at the girl who held her as though she were in the arms of the devil incarnate.

_"Witch."_ The conviction in her declaration was absolute. With that, Claire Brewster fell into unconsciousness.

* * *

In the end, the entire incident was written off as the result of a collective hallucination brought on by spoiled lunch food. School was let out early that day and the administration called off Friday as well, giving the students a three-day weekend in reparation for "lack of judgment on behalf of staff." Nary a suspicious eye turned her way- none but Claire's. Lydia would worry about her another time. For now, Betelgeuse would have to be seen to.

_Why did he _do _that?_ He was going to be furious when she saw him again, she just knew it. Lydia was tempted to call him as soon as she left school, but nervousness prevented her. What if he was still on a rampage? No, it would be _much _safer to reach out to him through her mirror. Delia and her father received hastened half-hearted greetings while she scrambled up the steps, eager to speak with her husband. They didn't seem to notice she when she came home earlier than usual either.

She cringed, hesitating before knocking on the glass. This wasn't going to be fun. _Knock. Knock. Knock_. "Betelgeuse…?" Almost immediately, his sneering countenance came into view. She spoke first in a breathless rush, hoping to end his rant before it could begin._ "Please don't be mad at me."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

With a hissing scream like a deflating balloon, the ghost is summarily banished back to the Neitherworld just as his fangs of one of his heads were touching Stacy's pretty face.

Being banished was probably one of the more frustrating parts of Betelgeuses' miserable existence, but even more frustrating was the idea that he was stuck here, unable to follow through and _protect Lydia_. It was a confusing, new sensation, a new source of rage that he hadn't considered prior to re-entering her life just a _day prior._ But, what is time, to the dead?

Anger came so easily to the poltergeist, and he was infuriated upon his return. He almost stormed down the entire roadhouse in his initial explosive anger at being unable to go back to the human world. _How long would he be here? What line was it _now _that he had crossed?_ Most of his anger stemmed from confusion – the living had such an _attachment _to staying alive. It was so….._incomprehensible_. And yet, who would want to be dead anyway? Certainly not he.

And anyway, she was just like the Maitlands.

_How dare she interrupt a professional while he's workin?!_

It seemed like an eternity that he stormed, haunting his own damn house like a bad fever dream. He was about to take it out on the rest of the Neitherworld too, but eventually, he ran out of steam something like a child throwing a tantrum. And just like any child throwing a tantrum, it ended in frustrated tears, pounding the floor of his bedroom exhaustedly in his striped suit. Not many could imagine him crying, but this was a deal he had worked almost his entire afterlife for. And it was an angry sort of crying, involving punching, and kicking, and destruction. No one would see him like this but his empty, half-destroyed room now. To be thwarted in some manner again was wrenching, especially when, yet again, he was trying in his own misconceived way _to do something ….good?…. for someone else._

Time dragged on. Betelgeuse was now in a full-blown sulk in the corner, utterly convinced he would never leave this place again. _Why would she even try and call him back?_ He almost didn't notice the knocking sound coming from his hand-mirror. It rattled and shook, and finally floated over to him, seemingly opening up the channel on its own. So, Lydia gets a really good face full of a sulky, sneering visage before she gets anything else, and he slowly turns towards the mirror with dark, almost black eyes that glitter as she speaks. Creepy.

"Lyds," the ghost murmurs, after she rushes out her plea, his voice clearly hoarse. He struggles with what to tell her, no rant forming, clearly hesitating on a few things before settling with a genuinely worried, "You're not gonna leave me in here, are ya?…..sweetheart…..?" he pauses, "I just…thought…them chicks were serious, see." As if pleading to a higher deity and trying to convince it that his sins were small ones, insignificant ones, he speaks to his wife in this way. _Please_.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

_Oh, thank all that was good and holy._ He wasn't mad at her. _Yet_. The desperation in his plea tugged at her heartstrings and made her _hate _herself for what she now had to do.

"Mm-mm," she reassured immediately, shaking her head _no _and biting her lip, yet still neglected to say his name. "I just… _Debbie's skull is fractured."_ It did not take Lydia long to learn the unconscious girl's name. People began screaming it, as well as Claire's and Stacy's, as soon as it became clear that the "hallucination" had dissipated and the cafeteria was safe again. "And Claire and Stacy are pretty messed up, too. They're going to be okay, but… I can't…"

How could she honestly expect this to work? Betelgeuse was a ruthlessly savage being, prone to rapid mood swings that had the potential to turn lethal when gone unchecked, and… and… he was her husband, _not _her prisoner. She would be his keeper, but she would not be his jailer. Lydia only hoped he was able to recognize the distinction.

"I can't… _let you…_ hurt anyone, Betelgeuse."

She ended with his name. That was twice. Maybe that would ease the sting. He didn't do _rules_, and here she was taking it upon herself to impose the grandaddy of all stipulations. This was not a part of their deal. This was an infraction of their bargain; he saves her friends, she marries him, he's granted his freedom. That's that, end of story.

But… that wasn't that, was it? He kissed her. He had made it abundantly clear that he had every intention of pursuing her romantically- _and she implied that she would let him._ That was a big infraction in Lydia's book. It seemed fair to allow herself this breach in contract. Regardless of either of their desires, Lydia didn't see herself as having much of a choice. He had stolen that from her She must do this.

_"Primum non nocere," _she quoted softly in latin with closed eyes, before repeating in English and settling resolute honey orbs on his reflection. "'First, do no harm.' I need you to promise me that you won't hurt anyone again, B. _Promise me_, and I'll never send you back again- that's my promise in return. No matter how badly you fuck up or how mad I am at you, I will _never _take advantage of that power."

In contrast to many of their previous conversations, Lydia kept her gaze level with his through most of her speech, willing him to please be reasonable just this once. "Deal?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

The ghost is weirdly quiet as she explains herself, those eyes still dark. Despite his bargaining plea, his begging doesn't match the expression on his face. He's about to reply to that _"let you" – who is she to let him do anything? _He twists and picks at his fingers, though, his mind turning over and over, clearly thinking. She is, despite everything, in charge of his freedom at this point, and so his only bargaining chip is to reason with her. Just like in the cave, just like before he married her. She remains his control vector, and he shifts uncomfortably, frowning at the thought. Despite that, too, he does have a tugging, pulling need to protect her in a way beyond his obligation towards his freedom which he isn't sure how to vocalize either. And he doesn't like it. But he does like that those girls will never insomuch look at Lydia, nevermind talk that way to her again, despite her having a firm hand it seems on his proverbial leash.

She's already said his name twice as if teasing him – it's intended to take away the sting, but it only cements it. Like waving a treat in front of a dog, and he almost audibly sighs in impatience but somehow manages to stifle it. And it reaps a reward: she offers him a deal. _Do no harm._ He can't hurt anyone, can he? His nasty little brain already pokes holes in her feeble attempt to keep him from chaos. He pulls a cigarette box out of his jacket pocket, clearing his nose with a hard, sort of gross phlegmy snort as if considering her offer. He lights the cigarette and it burns, those eyes still glittering, that intensity similar to when she first called him back.

"Sure," he finally says, pulling himself into a more casual sitting position, "Sure, sure. I understand," he says, holding up his hands, submissively. "I promise."

His intonation is inscrutable and he agrees….fairly readily. Maybe too readily. But he did make the deal, and seems to be thusly waiting, adjusting his jacket in preparation to be re-released.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

_"Betelgeuse,"_ she breathed out in a deep sigh of relief, freeing him. it was hard to believe that had actually gone as smoothly as it seemed. Lydia very highly doubted that this was the end of this particular issue, but the boundary had been set and terms were agreed to. That was enough for now.

Once he was back in her room, filling the entire space with his grandiose presence, Lydia found her demureness again. This was her _husband _who wanted to _date _and _kiss _her- and now he was standing in her bedroom with her. Alone. No plans, no expectations, no more deals to be made or fulfilled. Now what?

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get to you. I would've called earlier," she explained ramblingly, nervousness showing as she crossed to the window to open it and release his cigarette smoke. Just like before, she lit incense to help chase it away- _sandalwood for serenity._ Hopefully, this would help calm any residual unease between them. Distrustfully, she hovered over it for a moment to make sure he didn't put this one out either. "But I couldn't get out. There was an assembly, the police were called, parents are furious- it was all a really big thing."

Understandably so. Winter River's crown princesses were viciously attacked by a monstrous apparition that no one had a viable explanation for. There was a disturbance in the atmosphere that couldn't be ignored no matter how _strange _and _unusual_.

Just as Lydia was about to relay to him that he didn't have to bully her bullies, she could take care of herself _just fine, thank you very much-_ something occurred to her that hadn't before. "Why… why were you there, anyway? I didn't call you, did I?"

The last question was rushed, her cheeks just barely pinking. He was all that was on her mind at the moment. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that his name had formed on her tongue without her permission. Too late, Lydia realized her mistake. If he looked carefully enough, he might catch her slip and recognize exactly how much of an impact he was having on her. That was _dangerous_.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

His entrance this time into her bedroom was much better organized. He wasn't catapulted like before, but he billows in like a dark mist from within her mirror before reforming to his old, horrible self, sitting on her bed like a petulant gargoyle. As she rushes around lighting incense and describing the chaos, he watches her, studiously.

As she describes what happened at school, the ghoul grins a ghastly little grin. It's the only thing that's given him satisfaction beyond their deal, which he is careful not to mention again. "Well," he says, smoothly, "Bygones be bygones."

Had she seen him just an hour ago, frantically clawing, howling, shaking the walls, the epitome of wrathful energy…she would have immediately tagged that as a blatant lie. But she hadn't, so he takes advantage of the opportunity to simply be reasonable. She did come to fetch him, after all. But, he's being _overly _easy, perhaps. Perhaps.

He takes a long drag on his cigarette. "No," he affirms, as she asks if she had called him to her school. In this way, he's honest. But his honesty carries with it something a little less innocent, and a little less nice, "You didn't have to. You let the cat out of the bag, remember?" he studies her some more, and does indeed get a very good idea about what kind of an impact he, and this, might be having on her. A dark part of him _wriggles _in pleasure, but there are many dark parts to him. And less dark, more impulsive parts. He's almost tempted to tell her she has a beautiful singing voice. There goes that wriggle again.

"Come here," he motions, his voice lowered, his eyes hooded, "And I'll tell you a secret."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

Let the cat out of the bag? What did that even mean? Before she could get any further explanation out of him he said something that made her knees lock and the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

_"Come here, and I'll tell you a secret."_

As if in protest at the mere suggestion, her feet turned to lead weights beneath her. Her senses sharpened and she became acutely aware of how very _comfortable _he looked on her bed. Oh, absolutely nothing good could come of this. Painfully aware of her trembling, sweaty palms, she clenched them in the material of her skirt and took that first step toward her doom. She stopped just before his knees; within arm's reach, but probably not as close as he wanted.

_What was the worst that could happen? _

Large, apprehensive eyes settled on the cherry of his cigarette rather than his own. How she wished she was bold enough to steal it from his hand and take a deep drag of her own. God knows she needed it more than he did. He was so _sure _of himself, knew exactly what he was doing. Lydia didn't have a clue. When he didn't immediately speak- instead sucking down more smoke, seemingly basking in her nerves- she released her abused lower lip, shuffled just slightly closer, and whispered a barely audible, _"Well?"_

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

He can practically smell her past the stench of his cigarette smoke as she suddenly freezes up. _There_.

That was it. The moment he turned from something she thought she had control over into something else. And as she makes her way over slowly, somewhat stiffly, he waits. If she was considering dictating terms of their relationship, he was going to have to blur some lines. You can't tame a horse you haven't properly ridden, and while she may have the reigns it's quite clear she's not been instructed on how to use them. _So you think you're very clever?_

Her hands crumple into her skirt. _Got you._

As she approaches his knees, and asks him, _"Well?"_ he smiles like a cat and spreads them, and slowly encircles rough hands around her. One slips deftly around her middle, and the other entwines itself into that dark, luscious hair. It's gentle at first, but once they've found purchase, the fingers in her locks tighten into a firm, squeezing grip. He pulls her to him in a singular movement, slow but insistent and without asking. Perhaps he's expecting some resistance but not particularly worried about any, it seems. Because while his movements are slow and deliberate they are intensely _strong _and he leans in, almost curling over her small frame, to whisper into her ear.

"I know," he nearly purrs, "That there isn't a single part of you that was actually worried for them. You were worried for yourself, in that way, you and I are alike, little girl. But _you thrilled at the idea they'd be snapped up, torn t' shreds, yer heart can't lie to me."_

He removes the cigarette from his lips using the hand formerly wrapped around Lydia's waist and gently places the cigarette against her lips, knowingly, holding it there until she takes it. The ring on his broad dirt rubbed hand glitters in her low bedroom light while the other hand in her hair remains gripped. Just enough to keep her relatively in place and assert how strong he can be, her arms are free enough, as is the rest of her.

"I know there are thorns in the brush that have pricked you, and I can see it every time I look into your eyes._ I know you can sing like a bird from yer pretty little cage_. And I know you're no wilting, sad little flower waiting to be plucked," his lips curl back to reveal those dirt stained yellowing teeth. He takes a slow breath of her hair, "And between us, _the hunger is strong._ Soon, you'll grow tired of the unknowing."

He releases her, then, completely - returning the exchange of his cigarette and leaning back.

"That's what I know."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

When he touched her, she turned to stone. Pliant, submissive stone- but stone all the same. Still sitting somewhat elevated on her bed, he was taller than her even while she stood. With slow, purposeful movements he drew her in- not quite as though he were concerned she might hit him, but prepared for it nonetheless. It was impossible to suppress the whimper that escaped when his long fingers curled and _pulled _at the base of her mane, only just so. Not a punishment so much as a reminder. Cold breath that stunk of bourbon and tobacco ghosted across her ear. Instinctively, she gasped at the icy sensation and turned her head, baring her throat in submission to the threat.

That voice of shadow and smoke grated across her eardrums, telling her his "secret." _No!_ She wanted to cry out her dissent and shake his arms away- but couldn't. Not because his grip was too strong- _and it was strong-_ but because something was burning inside of her and it wasn't quite ready to stop yet._ You're wrong!_

The gruesome images he painted for her with his cruel assumption of her character made her stomach turn, but not from squeamishness. She _hated _what he did to them. It absolutely _killed _her on the inside that Debbie- who had never once been outwardly cruel to her and was simply guilty by association- was now laying in a hospital bed because of her. The sound of the horrible agony in Stacy's screams would not be leaving her any time soon. Claire was so mentally scarred by the incident that she now truly believed in her heart of hearts that Lydia was a witch and had sicced her monster on them.

_Hadn't she though? Wasn't she?_

Struck with a fresh wave of guilt, her knees buckled and she sucked in the smoke he offered eagerly, eyes clenching shut and mystifying with all new tears. She would not give these to him. He didn't deserve them. More words came pouring out of his mouth, straight into her ear, but she couldn't ignore them even if she tried. They were more accurate than the others, to a degree she wasn't sure she was able to admit to herself.

_"-I know you can sing like a bird from yer pretty little cage-"_

At this, she stiffened again, not even realizing that over the course of his taunt she had gone from marble to putty in his arms- even when one of them ceased holding her. _He watched her bathe-_ and thanks to their deal, _there wasn't shit she could do about it_. It took a substantial amount of self-control to keep from sending him back out of pure spite. Her hands reclenched- into tight fists of rage, this time- and when he finally released her she made no attempts to back away. The practical knowledge that he wouldn't even feel it was the only thing that kept her fist from crashing into his smug jaw.

Molten eyes burned, unshed tears forgotten. Nostrils flared. A goddess of rage stood before him, fearless of consequences.

"You don't know _anything about me_," she corrected. Not with the petulance of someone who had been called out, but with the arrogance an individual who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were right. "But I know something about you," she mocked, taunting. "I know that you're a selfish manipulative jerk who is _so incredibly terrified of rejection_ that you couldn't even produce the testicles necessary to ask me on a _real _date like a _real _man."

Satisfied, she took a step back to let him ruminate on her accusation, somehow staring down at him despite the physical disadvantage. There. Her body language was taut, daring him to _do something about it_. Give her an excuse.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Well, that made her angry. He wasn't particularly surprised this time, every attempt at making some sort of connection with her has insoforth worked out….half and half, at best. She liked it when he was honest with her, and so he was. Projecting his own savagery onto Lydia wasn't nice, however, although the ghost was really in no mood to be _nice _anyway. And, it seemed, neither was she. _Fucking teenagers_.

"I know more about you than you think," replies the ghost, slowly, his temper not matching hers, "I'm pretty dumb but I'm not that dumb, sweet'eart." He had his explosive fit earlier and now he had settled into something more subtly malicious and playful especially after the incredibly unwise deal she had just made with him. At her latter insult, he laughed, genuinely finding it quite funny. It was a full toss of his head, gleeful cackle, too. "Accurate, m'little spitfire," is all he says, as she stands defiantly between his knees. He takes a drag of his cigarette. His eyes gleam. He likes her at extremes, and this is probably not the _healthiest _thing…but it seems he can provoke her into a wide range of emotions, and none of them are predictable. It's _immensely _entertaining. He almost hopes she hits him just like she's threatening to do with that fisted hand clenched at her side.

He adds, cigarette clenched between his teeth, holding out his arms in self-effacing anger, "You wouldn't wanna go on a goddamn date with me, anyway. Who dates a guy like me?" the world has been an unkind stranger to this prowling, hurt beast, and he has subsequently lashed out for so many millennia – and it drips in his tone. He holds up his hands, "Fine. I'll humor you. Lydia Geuse-Deetz - _you like that? I thought that was pretty good, y'know Geuse isn't really my last name_, will you go on a date with me?"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

"Yes," she snapped back without any hesitation, still full of passion. "I will! Was that so hard? Ugh!" Scowling, she turned her back on him to sit back down at her vanity and brush out her windblown hair, all the while grumbling under her breath. Something about _stupid boys_ and their _stupid pride_ and _unfairness_. His laughter only served to pour gasoline over her rage. "Shut up." There was still a simmering fury there, but it was markedly calmed.

An angry blush discolored her cheeks and she ran the brush through her locks roughly, glaring at her own reflection. How did he get to sit there all calm and nonchalant as though nothing had just occurred between them? Bastard. _"Take my first kiss,"_ she growled inaudibly, ripping the bristles through her hair viciously, _"take my first date and don't have the balls to tell me it's a date,"_ she separated her mass of raven hair into two equal portions hanging over either side of her shoulders, _"spy on me in the bath,"_ her fingers worked quickly and methodically, arranging the locks into twin braids, _"lose your_ goddamn mind and attack a bunch of little girls, you _coward_," her volume rose here, rubbing it in that she wanted him to hear it. Lydia's tongue was loosening the more she worked herself up.

"You stay right there," she ordered with a glare as she made for the closet to change out of her uniform. She couldn't go on a date in _that _hideous thing. The blue plaid accentuated her pale complexion in a way that Lydia did not find at all flattering. She instead donned a simple black sundress, her favorite, most worn pair of combat boots, and an equally worn leather jacket that was much too big for her.

With all the contempt of cat that had recently had its first bath, she presented herself to him; arms crossed defiantly over her chest, black-painted lips still twisted into a scowl. "Now take me on a date and make it a good one. You owe me."


	5. The Date

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

It takes Betelgeuse a good half a minute to realize she's acquiesced to a date. She's already storming away, grumbling, telling him to shut up – cutting off his laughter and leaving him blinking. The cigarette almost falls out of his mouth. If he could throw his hat, he would. _WOMEN!_

And then she starts _blaming him_ – leaving him gawping. Accept date. Then yell at him? He can't decide if he wants to laugh or kick something. He doesn't reply right away, just letting her go on about it, his expression absolutely perplexed – baffled – and he eventually settles on a shrug, and a grin.

"Hey hey hey," he eventually mutters something of a response to her last hiss about his attack, hardly expecting her to listen, "Those chicks mean it. And they deserved it, after hurting you – and threatening you with even more of the same. Babes, by keeping you safe I keep me safe, okay?" he puts it into terms she can understand – him being selfish, because of course he is. She said so. And it's just true.

He settles into silence again though, as she orders him to stay on the bed, and so he makes another face and stays where he is, peering after her as she storms into her closet. As she marches back out in the sundress, his eyebrows shoot up to the top of his head. It isn't fair to verbally berate him and then come angrily out at him looking like _that_.

"Uh," he says, intelligently. This time, the cigarette does fall out of his lips and into his hands, where it burns the hell out of his fingers and he's left flailing and cursing, trying to both catch the damn thing and put it out. He eventually manages it and glowers fiercely at the girl who stands there so defiantly, and sexily, and …. and… _gah!_ "Hang on," he says, holding up a finger, and trying to push the various voices that scream around inside his brain throwing up images of her biting him, her hands in his jacket, grabbing that leather coat and pulling her, and so on. She wants….to go…. Somewhere. On a date. Right. Date needs location _maybe she'll step on your neck in those shitkickers_ god…dammit!

He manages to quell the voices by not looking directly at her visage for a good moment, fiercely chewing on a knuckle, before turning back to her and trying to look _maybe over her shoulder_ in order to fucking focus. What the fuck do the living do on dates? He showed her his best Neitherworld spot. "Well," he says slowly, carefully, trying to keep his hands occupied because they feel like they're going to jump off his wrists and grab her everywhere, "Your place or min—shit. Neitherworld—or your world, darlin'?" he recovers. Good. Phew.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

His immediate acquiescence to her demand calmed her fire. "Neitherworld," she answered stiffly, nodding once. Nothing up here could possibly be as fun or interesting as anything down there. "And I don't want to hear any bullshit stories about your 'juice not working.' I expect an edible meal to be provided and to be returned home by midnight-" _unless we're just having that much fun._

Lydia found it unwise to vocalize this loophole. She also couldn't bring herself to care about the way he was glaring at her. Obviously, he was out of his element and was not at all pleased with her forcing him into this role, but that was his problem. If he was going to insist on seducing her, then she would insist he do it properly.

_"Oh, Lydiaaa! Come downstairs, your father wants to speak with you!" _

Delia's voice sounded from downstairs, itching at her ears through the thick barriers of wood. She cringed at the sound of it. Apparently, her father and stepmother had chosen this moment to remember that she existed. Scoffing and rolling her eyes like the teenager she was, she mumbled an obligatory "one minute" in Betelgeuse's direction and departed from her room to see what it was that they wanted.

"Pumpkin!" Her father greeted her once she reached the bottom landing, before drawing her into a tight hug and kissing the top of her head. Lydia squirmed until she was released. "Are you okay? I just listened to the voicemail from your principal, why didn't you tell us what happened? Apparently, there was some kind of food poisoning… and some students were attacked…?"

Lydia faltered, scrambling for a decent response. "Yeah- I mean, it wasn't _that _bad-" it was worse. "Some girls started screaming and crying- seeing things and attacking each other. I didn't really eat much so… I guess that's why… it didn't affect me…?" She paused expectantly, seeing if he would take the bait. Lydia really was a terrible liar.

He did. A deep scowl marred Charles Deetz's face and he stood a bit taller, stepping into his ruthless businessman persona. "Unacceptable," he snapped, already halfway up the stairs toward his study. "For the amount of money they're extorting, the very least I can expect is safe food for my daughter. Don't you worry, pumpkin. Daddy's gonna get his lawyer on the phone and _then they'll see who they're messing with."_

"Dad-" she called out to him, distressed. "You don't have to-" The door slammed. He was already beyond hearing her, like any other normal day in the Deetz household.

"Lydia!" Delia called brightly as she came around the corner, before cringing at her stepdaughter's appearance. "Don't you look… _lovely…_" Well, that hurt. Lydia didn't give a good God damn what Delia thought about her appearance, but it was painful seeing the clear distaste in those judgmental blue eyes all the same. "Are you going somewhere? Are you not making dinner tonight? Again?" There was a sort of fear in the crinkle of her stepmother's brow, be it from the idea of starving or being forced to cook a meal herself- Lydia couldn't tell.

"Actually," she replied importantly, smugly, knowing that this would shock the despised redhead, "I'm going on a date. So no, I'm not cooking dinner tonight. You and Dad are on your own."

To her delight, Delia's face fell in horror. Then, she started talking again and Lydia's self-satisfied pleasure faded away into something much less pleasant. "_What?!_ With who? One of the boys from the boys' school, I'm assuming. Well, that means he's rich and you can't go out with one of those boys looking like _that_. Those boys have certain _standards _and _expectations _and- and- Lydia, where are you going? I'm trying to help you! Lydia? _Lydia!"_

Her bedroom door slammed at her back and she met her date's gaze. Once more she was made entirely of fire and brimstone. At least it wasn't aimed directly at him this time. "I'm ready to go."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

As Lydia's parents broke the weird, tense mood, Betelgeuse was mildly relieved for once. It _also _meant that he could watch Lydia walk away, which was a pretty nice view in his very studied opinion. He only barely resisted the urge to pinch her butt, but the door closes before he manages it…probably for the best.

His juice might work too well, in this instance, and he snorts to himself. Idly, he scuffs his fingers against his jacket, briefly, and then decides to do what he always does – _spy on her_. Well, "overhear" the conversation, really. He leans against her bedroom door in a half-crouch and uses a bit of his powers in order to bring the sound to him.

_Oh Charles. Chuck. Chuckie. Spoiling for a fight, are we?_ The ghost chuckles to himself. The chaos he caused at Lydia's school definitely upset her, but it made Betelgeuse filled with wrathful glee. _Go get 'em, tiger._ Hahahahha! What a fuckin' idiot, tilting at fucking windmills.

And then Delia's voice lilts into the picture, and he listens even harder. _This couldn't get any better._ Lydia explains herself, and the ghost practically dances with mischievous joy. He chuckles and chuckles to himself. _Oh, Delia. If only you knew, you uptight twit. Those boys wouldn't even begin to handle that daughter of yours. It takes a grown man to unlock that box._ He growls though, at her insinuation that Lydia was dressed as anything but date material. The ghosts' standards are certainly different than that of a prep school jock, admittedly, but _give the girl a fuckin' break, would ya?_

As their conversation seems to end, the ghost quickly tip-toes back to the bed and resumes whatever position he was in previously, trying to look as casual and disinterested as possible. As Lydia's wrathful presence slams through the door, it actually does make him jump in a startled fashion, not expecting her to be so enraged, oddly. He gives her an awkward, too-innocent smile and claps his hands together. "Sure! Sure."

The ghost stands and summons a door for a second time. He'd use Lydia's mirror, but he's not sure how much she'd enjoy climbing onto her own furniture and it didn't seem like an awesome time to test her. He opens the door for her, and whistles into the inky blackness. Within a moment or two, the happy grumble of the all too familiar vehicle from earlier makes itself known and it hovers just outside the door, beneath the threshold, waiting for Lydia to step directly into it. Betelgeuse doesn't change for their date, but he does have a rotting carnation in his pocket now at least. "Ladies first."

Once secure inside the vehicle, they fly off into the blackness until the muted purples of that unnatural otherworldy sky start to surround them. Those strange clumps of floating land pass by underneath, but this time the ghost flies lower and joins the other cars on the road. From this vantage point, the girl at his side can get a very picturesque look at the Neitherworld denizens and architecture up close. Weird buildings with odd angles jut out from a broken, winding sidewalk. Everything is strangely colored, including the figures roaming the streets. Some are fish people with hooks hanging out of their mouths. Some are like swiss cheese. Some are simply the walking dead, buying groceries, living a strange parallel life to the one they had when they were alive. With his arm hanging out of the side of the car, Betelgeuse drives slowly, casually, letting her see all this peculiar wildlife and environment. The highway they merge onto eventually arcs up and away from the edges of that cityscape, and they drive for some time until they hit another one. This one, though, leads into something of an empty lot and a giant screen, with many, many cars of strange and quirky variety parked in front of it. One car, in particular, holds a giant tentacled multiple-eyed monster of some sort, cuddled up to another one of similar nature.

"Romantic, isolated caves aren't your thing, soooo…." the ghost asserts, "…..I'm kinda hopin' you at least like movies. I think this one is uh…._Gore-Met Zombie Chef From Hell_, where dining out is a _permanent experience_." He wriggles his fingers at her, "Spoooooky."

An unamused waitress quickly skates up to the car door, and the ghost cranks the window down. Clearly, she had died doing something like this, and was even buried in her damn waitress uniform potentially, streaked with the imprint of a car tire. "Welcome to the Rick R. Mortis drive-in, where people and great movies never die," she prattles, tonelessly, "I'll take ya order, what'll'it be?"

Betelgeuse turns to Lydia and mentions, "They have stuff like uh, scream sundaes, haunt dogs, corn on the cobweb, popcorn n' maggot butter, chocolate roach bites…."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

Lydia could scarcely tear her face away from the window the entire ride. His vehicle lacked a speedometer, so there was no way of knowing how fast they were going, how much distance was being traversed. They looped and swerved, taking sharp turns and jumping over gaping chasms in their path. There was so much to see, but it was all moving too fast. Her fingers itched for her camera- _she was kicking herself for forgetting it again-_ though she knew they were moving too quickly for her to be able to capture anything. Just a swirling canvas of lights and color in constant motion.

_Maybe he could summon it for me if I asked._ She threw him a considerate sideglance, biting her lip, before vetoing the idea. After the torrent of emotions she'd unleashed on him, it was probably best not to ask for any more favors so soon. Eventually, the car slowed and Lydia was able to make out her surroundings with clarity. There were dead people everywhere! As well as individuals that Lydia was hard-pressed to consider "human." They roamed in and out of establishments, some with shopping bags in their arms, still bearing the marks of their deaths. Their flesh was pallid with the loss of blood, ranging in all shades of blue and violet. One woman, in particular, caught Lydia's attention. What appeared to be a cellphone was tucked between her ear and shoulder, and Lydia couldn't help but wonder how she managed to carry on a conversation without her jaw.

The buildings themselves were a marvel. The architecture varied wildly in style from building to building. Some were ancient and carved from clay, with no doors or windows. Just roughly hewn rectangular holes for patrons to exit and enter through. These were clearly the oldest businesses on the block. Others were towering monuments of chrome and magic, impossible spools of light and three-dimensional holograms sporting advertisements of what was sold inside. She was torn from a commercial for a perfume that claimed to smell like _real, fresh blood! To attract that special vampire you've had your eyes on-_ when Betelgeuse turned a corner, the tinny voice fading into nothing as they departed from the populated area.

Soon, they pulled into what could only be the Neitherworld's version of a drive-in theater. It wasn't until he parked and gave her the name of the movie they were about to see that Lydia realized she was just sitting there with a big, dumb grin on her face, staring at everything. She couldn't get enough

"I have no problem with romantic, isolated caves, thank you very much," she corrected haughtily. An amused smirk curled black lips, telling him that any wrongdoing on his part had already been forgotten in the wake of all the exotic sights and sounds. "So long as I'm not there under _false pretenses_."

Lydia's stomach turned uneasily as he listed off items on the menu. Everything sounded absolutely atrocious and not at all edible- but the scream tarts had been _delicious_. Throwing caution to the wind, she made her choice. "Uhm… I would like a… scream sundae and a haunt dog, please," she told the waitress politely, smiling sweetly.

"Scaramel or hot sludge, honey?"

"What would _you _recommend?" Lydia inquired, honestly curious.

A spark of life entered her dead eyes as she considered the living girl's question. It was clearly not often anyone asked her opinion. "Between you and me," she offered conspiratorily, leaning a little closer in, "the hot sludge is a little _fresh_. You'd be better off with scaramel."

"Scaramel it is then," Lydia decided, giving the woman a smile so bright she had no choice but to return it with a bemused grin of her own.

"Alrighty," she marked off the order in a notepad and turned her attention to Betelgeuse, "and what'll tall, dark, and moldy over here have?"

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Betelgeuse barely suppresses a roll of his eyes as Lydia instantly charms the waitress into a better mood. _Ugh_. Of course, they all like her. He internally wishes they'd all die again as he scowls and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Lydia places her order and he sniffs at the waitress' description of him. He knows he looks good, lady.

"Chocolate covered beetle bites. Light on the chocolate. And uh, I'll have a large muck-sucker, extra lumps."

"Sure thing honey," she finishes writing in the pad, and skates off through the cars.

The ghost turns to his car companion, who looks …. happy, at least. Okay, so he did alright, right? Right. He adjusts his jacket and loosens his arms through his sleeves. "This movie's a real stinker," he says, tilting himself towards her just a little to explain, as the reel starts to play on the giant screen ahead of them. "Most of it looks like it took place in the director's house and was shot with a hand cam, there's a topless girl scene where even the dude in the scene just ignore them? Inexplicable shots of limbs. The basic plot is cannibals, but …that kinda…eehhh," he waves his hand back and forth. "There's a magic arm fight, though. Like, weird Jedi shit. Priests, something-something. The blood looks like tabasco sauce," he pauses, then adds, "Good choice on the food by the way, I think you'll like it, it's a lot like the scream-cakes you uh, ate." _Yep, doubly sure he was spying on her now. Way to go._

It's clear this one has watched a lot of movies. Maybe media is how he interacts with most of the world, keeps up to the changing eras. "I love a bad movie. What's your fave movie, babes?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

Fortunately, his slip went right over Lydia's head. Not that it was news that he couldn't be trusted keeping his eyes to himself.

"My _favorite _movie?" Lydia repeated, mind going blank. "Oh gosh, I don't know… Give me a minute…" She chewed on her thumb, brow furrowed cutely while considering her vast options. "Well obviously _Night of the Living Dead_ is the best zombie film of all time, but favorite? Hmm… _Sinister _is amazing, that one even got a scream out of Delia… God, _Insidious _was freaking great, but the sequels really dragged it down…"

She continued on in this fashion naming several more titles and their various positive attributes, but never really answering the question, until the characters on the screen started talking. Here, she quieted, training her gaze forward and listening intently. B-horror movies weren't something that generally struck her interest. When she sought out horror, she was looking for a thrill. She never got it, of course, but that didn't stop her from trying. It had never even occured to her that a piece of media of such poor quality would have anything to offer her, much less humor. Comedy just wasn't something that Lydia prioritized.

But this… this was _ridiculous_.

"They look-" she snorted indelicately, slapping a hand over her mouth as if it might take back the ugly noise, "- like a bunch of nerds playing _Magick the Gathering! _Oh, wow. This is bad. This is really, really bad." The stream of giggles that followed this observation belied that she didn't actually give a damn. Soon, the waitress returned with their food, leaving them with another smile before putting her toneless, emotionless mask back on for the other patrons.

There didn't appear to be much difference between a hot dog and a "haunt dog." The bun was gray, but it smelled and felt normal. The condiments were purple and green, but when she tentatively touched her tongue to it, licking the tip of the meat, all she tasted was mustard and ketchup. This was all the motivation Lydia needed to take a voracious bite, hunger chasing away any leftover trepidation. The scaramel was similarly edible, if a bit more… _vocal _than she was used to.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

_Wheeze_. Once she's…._licked_ the condiments off her face (the ghost was more than halfway tempted to lick 'em off for her…) he is able to vaguely re-compose himself. Sorta. He replies, anyway, "Of course it's a double feature, babes. Second one is uh…. The Abominable Dr. Phibes. Vincent Price, Lyds. Can't beat that, right?"

At her remark about the living world not having many drive-ins, he nods. "Well, here in the Neitherworld, it's kinda one of the only things you can do for good entertainment. I mean, other than shoppin'."

The ghost lights another cigarette and drapes his arm out the open window. One of the oddest things about the Neitherworld, of course, was its….strange lack of weather, or temperature. Wherever you were, it was perfect – never _too _hot, or cold, or anything. The air, minus crazy errant hurricanes, is always somewhat still, like being indoors without actually being so. So, when your windows were down at a drive through, it was just….pleasant. Nothing more, nothing less. It may be why the ghost startles _just a little_ as Lydia starts to take off her shoes, and jacket, leaving her in that very light day dress and pigtails.

_She is trying to kill him all over again._ Of this, Betelgeuse is fairly certain. He would claw his own face in frustration but she's also _having a good time_ and he is finally doing things _right _with her, and that's a pretty damn big accomplishment for a ghoul that's barely even housetrained. Even though he's fairly certain she _has to know what she's doing_. So he settles for taking his ire out on the film, making the girl laugh. Every time she does, something funny twists in his chest. And she's funny too, she has a biting sense of humor when she wants, and Betelgeuse has decided quite thoroughly that he likes it. Dating is just a slow, funny death or something though. It must be. Some part of this is agonizing in a way that the ghost can't describe.

"I know where Vincent Price lives, yanno. He's famous 'round these parts, just like when he was alive. We're not on speakin' terms or anythin'. I've done him a couple favors here n' there."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

"Oh, I _love _that one," she gushed, sitting up a bit straighter in her excitement, curling her legs in tighter. The slight movement made her the light fabric of her skirt gather further into her lap, exposing her knees to the pleasant Neitherworldian atmosphere. There wasn't quite a breeze, but the air wasn't still either. It was just… nice. "Vincent Price is my favorite actor in the history of film ever. Hands down. Point blank. Period. His performance in _The Pit and the Pendulum_ was just…" Lydia blinked, shaking her head jerkily as though she were overcome with emotion. "There are no words. Pure magic."

His horribly nonchalant mention of actually knowing _the _Vincent Price, however, was too much.

_"What?!"_ Like that, Betelgeuse had her complete attention. She turned so that she was mostly facing him, eyes large with disbelief. "Shut up, you did not do any favors for Vincent _freaking _Price, you liar!" Despite what she was saying, her tone bubbled with delight at the prospect that _he might be telling the truth_. Needing to know more, a barrage of questions immediately followed her skeptical outburst. "What's he like? Is he nice? _Oh, please tell me he's nice_, I couldn't _bear _it if he was a jerk! Can I meet him? No- no, no, I shouldn't meet him. He probably avoids fans all day long, I don't want to be annoying… _but maybe if I was really cool about it-_ No. No, it's a bad idea… _right?"_

Without meaning to, the girl had leaned just that much further toward the driver's side of the car with each frenzied question. Lydia became acutely aware of this when she glanced up after asking her last question and found herself nearly face to face with her husband. Her breath hitched. If the lighting was better, she was sure he would have been able to see the vivid color in her cheeks.

"I mean," she squeaked, before dropping her hindquarters back into her seat and fiddling with the skirts gathered in her lap. The end credits for _Gore-met, Zombie Chef From Hell_ began rolling, casting an even dimmer glow over the rows of parked cars. "It's just an idea."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

Alright, time to play it cool. She's clearly wound up, and the thing that's twisting around in the ghosts' chest is almost _purring _about it. He is an artful, skillful liar in many ways….but, this one happens to be surprisingly true. So, he'll unwind that reel slowly because like most interactions with Betelgeuse, he was _not actually helpful_ to poor Vincent Price, in fact it was _quite the opposite_ and hence why he mentioned the two are _not on speaking terms_. That will have to be carefully edited. Betelgeuse has met the ghost of many a celebrity – like it says on their currency, mors vincit omnia and once you die…well, it's all the same.

_We all float down here_.

Some find him delightful when rubbing elbows – Mae West and Douglas Kenney come to mind, Barbara Britton has a secret admiration for him, others would love to see his head on a pike. Hanging out with him is like _slumming _– he's gauche, tacky, boorish, and a _troublemaker_. His name is well known, however, in certain circles. If you want a particularly nasty job done, and done messily, he's your guy. But making a deal with him is like making a deal with a monkey's paw. You never know how things will turn out.

And right now, he's entirely unsure as to how _this _will turn out, but _active murder_ is occurring in this car. He would scream for help but has a strange idea that other people would look at him funny. So he takes a big hit on his cigarette and leans towards the window slightly as she wets her pants over Vincent Price, just for some…air, and when he turns back he suddenly finds her directly in his face. His eyes widen. He can feel the worst decision forming in his brain. He's determined that what he wants to do is in direct opposition to whatever Lydia wants, but he's definitely feverish by now. She can probably see it.

Some part of his lizard brain was vaguely paying attention to her ramblings about meeting Vincent Price, and the ghost winces. "Uh, yeah —-" he mutters, vaguely, as she plops back into her seat, "I can take you to meet 'em. Anytime this week. You name the time, we'll do it."

There's a weird pause, but the ghost finally invades Lydia's space and slides an arm around his wife's shoulders, and gives her a good, firm squeeze. Proximity first. "It'll be fun. Just you n' me. And Pricey boy. He is very…. Well, _he's got the patience of a saint_," he breathes into her ear. And that's true. Are those fingers tangling in her hair? He probably doesn't even realize he's doing it. But he's _awfully _close now. Distraction. "You know the titty sphinx sculptures on one of the altars in _The Red Death_? I have a replica of one of 'em in my—-" crypt? Grave? Juno-banishment-chamber? "—uh, apartment."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

Oh. _Oh, this was terribly romantic._ Everything she ever thought she wanted, really. The movie was hilarious, the food delicious- if a bit unorthodox, and her date had been nothing less than attentive and courteous. Well, as courteous as she could expect Betelgeuse to be, anyway. He was dangerously charming when he wanted to be, and apparently, he wanted to be charming _right now._

His icy breath kissed her ear while filthy talons dug their way into one of her loose braids, mussing, pulling it out in places. Gooseflesh rose on every inch of exposed flesh. She tried to suppress a shiver, but her body wasn't in any mood to be reasonable. Why did this feel so _wrong?_ Everything was perfect. Too perfect. Maybe she just wasn't built for happiness, and that's why that haunt dog was doing flips in her stomach. He wasn't _bad _looking, not really. Some people might disagree with her, but Lydia wasn't one to care about other people's opinions. As a matter of fact, in the dim glow of the screenlight, he almost looked… handsome…?

"That's- uh… That's… _really cool_," she admitted not at all smoothly, feeling very much like she didn't belong, that it was time for her to go home and be lonely again. "I'd love to see it, and him. I mean… but only if it's _really _okay…" She made no moves to shuck off his arm or squirm away, despite her screaming fight-or-flight instincts. This was allowed, wasn't it? He was her husband- _who wanted to date and kiss her_. It didn't feel real. It was almost as though she was waiting for the ball to drop, for everything to go to hell the way it always does. This many nice things just didn't happen to her in such quick succession. It wasn't right. Something was wrong.

"Can I- uh…?" She didn't wait for an answer, not sure if her frazzled nerves could handle any more harsh whispers directly in her ear. Nimble fingers stole the cigarette right from his hand. It was wrapped around black lips before Lydia took a greedy drag. A smooth stream of smoke expelled from her lungs. She dipped her head away and to the side to save her poor, sensitive ear from any further attention, took another deep hit, and gave him back his smoke. He preferred full flavors. Lydia herself favored menthol whenever she deigned to dirty her pristine lungs with carcinogens, but she wasn't about to complain. Still, she couldn't help the face she made at the perfectly non-minty taste. "Thanks."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

He can feel her shiver, and despite her intentions to the contrary, he can also feel her tense just enough under his touch. He can't say he doesn't like it, just a little. She also hasn't hit him or pushed him away, or insulted him quite yet, so that's …. permission, in his language. It definitely isn't considered the same by _anyone else_ of course, but this is Betelgeuse and he's been a bachelor his entire life and afterlife _for a reason_. Beyond that, he's a nuisance of the highest order.

This is a new sort of exploration, too. He's never tried doing this the genuine, and honest way…or dating, or subscribing to any cultural norms at all, and he still sort of isn't – his intentions aren't pure, that's certain. Internally he wants to _eat her alive_ but he's settling for idly fumbling with her hair and seeing what he can get away with, it seems.

He's not all that concerned, either, as to whether or not she finds him handsome, though there's a part of him that supposes it would be nice if she did. He knows he's the best looking ghost this side of the Neitherworld…or so he tells himself… but usually, an inflated ego means a disastrous lack of self-esteem. He knows he's gross, too, but that's what being dead will get you. That and the insects he eats. And the lack of exercise. And…okay okay, he's a fuckin' slob. _Jesus_.

His brain swims with a thousand bad ideas, but he's walking on thin ice and he knows it. Too much pushing and she could break their deal and banish him. It isn't his fault that this turned into something else, something beyond a marriage of inconvenience. Right? Right. So, with that settled, those grubby claws of his untangle one of her braids completely, even though it's a shame to lose such a lovely little handlebar.

She reaches for his cigarette and snatches it up before he can answer, which he seems to be fully accepting of. _It's normal for girls to be nervous around such an amazing dead guy, so it's obvious why she needs a smoke._ Ha. Right. He starts working on undoing her second braid, idly, as he purrs into her ear again. "Yeah. Sure, 's fine," he replies, regarding Vincent Price. He catches the face she makes, though, and chuckles low in his throat. "Menthol is your demon of choice huh? Never liked the stuff. Lots of people degrade my full flavor ways but ah…. A man likes what 'e likes."

At the last, he runs his claws down the nape of her neck even as she ducks away, clearly inferring something _else _as the second braid is undone. He enjoys this hair of hers, its thick, and highly grabbable, as he discovered earlier. He refrains from that now, but instead simply runs his fingers through that luxurious bounty, stroking it fondly as if he had plans for it later. The titles for Dr. Phibes roll by and he pulls her to him gently, apparently fully prepared to settle in that way whether or not she was going to be particularly receptive. He never considered himself exactly _cuddly _at all, but apparently, he's willing to make an exception in order to just hold her. She's warm and soft, and the potential is there for her to get used to this if he does it right.

Every time its prey breathes out, a python squeezes harder, after all, inch by tiny inch, until they're overwhelmed and the python gets its way.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

_"Hey-" _she objected weakly once she realized what he was doing to her braids, but the little bands that bound them had already been slung out the window and beyond her reach. _Dick_. She might have asked _why _if he didn't immediately answer the question with his roaming hands, clawed fingers lightly scratching her scalp at the top of each raking stroke.

It was much too much. _She was going to panic_. The car was too small. Her breaths started to come in sharper, painfully shallow. Then, as if sensing the impending fit, he pulled her in close to his side of the car and anchored her to his chest with an immovable arm. Rather than feeling trapped, Lydia derived a bizarre sense of being grounded. It was comforting in a way that could almost be deemed obscene, especially if the girl were privy to the loathsome thoughts running through her captor's head.

Instead of indulging the fight response, she allowed her cheek to sink against his jacket, right where his heart would be. Thinking that he probably couldn't see her face from his vantage point, she allowed herself a moment of weakness. Honey eyes drifted closed- _she'd seen this movie a hundred times-_ her breathing slowly but surely returned to normal, and she willed her body to _please stop shaking like that, it was so fucking embarrassing_. She kept her arms pinned between them, hands curled beneath her collarbone even though it would have been more physically comfortable to indulge, to allow one to come and rest casually across his gut.

Somewhere along the way, his petting stopped making her cringe. She came to expect the slow, patterned caresses and the predictable weight of his hand atop her head. It would have been jolting if he deviated in any way. Vincent Price's daunting, powerful voice promising vengeance for his beloved was able to coax her eyes back open. The familiar picture inspired a deeper calm. It was reminiscent of rainy days spent safely under the covers, binging the classics.

_This was okay. She was okay._

Slow and shy, maybe unaware that she was even doing it, a thin pale arm took up mantle across his chest, tiny fist curling around the lapel of his suit jacket. Her strung tight body eased- _ever so excruciatingly slowly-_ melting until she was a pile of pliant limbs against him. Somewhere beneath layers of stripes, mold, bone, and decay, she might have heard an impossible, barely there thump.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

Precious trembling girl. He had to walk a tightrope with this one, but _it was worth it_. As she finally eases into settling against him, he can't help but look terribly pleased with himself. That's one breath out. And the python squeezes again, figuratively. She seems to enjoy the petting, too, and he keeps that steady and rhythmic. If there's one thing the ghost is good at, it's getting the unwary to trust him, and this is no exception. Definitely harder work – he wasn't a sensitive type, but he learns quickly enough. Sort of. He's good at scheming, at least.

If her arm sank across his belly he'd known he'd had her then – but it doesn't, so he keeps his movements relatively safe, coaxing her into a lull. And she does, eventually, melting against him like a relaxed feline…except it is him who is internally purring. His heart may have indeed responded to this, her arm curled along his chest, the warmth of her slight form curved against his side with a distant _thump _– once, perhaps twice, he doesn't much pay attention to a long ago memory of biological processes except when he's attempting to affect drama of some kind. But his body still responds to some things.

After a good few moments of this, the ghost is quite certain she's dozed off. While she wakes, briefly, to Vincent Price's voice, she has completely gone lights out otherwise…and it's deep. The living _need _sleep and Betelgeuse is always forgetting those sorts of things. Circadian rhythms are long lost to him. But this provides the opportunity to pounce, just a little, and he waits to be entirely certain she's deeply asleep before he moves. And it's slow, gradual, slipping his cigarette silently into his alternate hand and using his free one to ease the bench seat back. Carefully and smoothly to ensure he doesn't wake her, he lowers it _just enough_ to have her fully roll against him.

His tongue grazes his chapped lips in satisfaction, his attention quite fully focused now and intent on having a little fun. He greedily dances his fingers from her nape down her spine, tracing it, moving his hand down Lydia's side almost reverently. He palms slowly, but firmly at her hips, which are just developing the soft womanly padding along their surface that demonstrates her age, just before the cusp of true adulthood. She's delicious to touch, and if the ghost had any less of a leash around his slimy nape he'd have already had her by now. A greasy, self-satisfied grin spreads across his features. As long as she doesn't wake up, he's safe; so he goes from her hips to her buttocks and thighs, that day dress barely covering them, the flesh so soft and pliant under his dirt-stained fingers, carefully making sure his claws don't dig too much. He is _severely _tempted to go after the little feet that now tangle against his thigh, but he barely manages to convince himself that any sensation too intense would indeed wake her up.

He's quiet, slow about it, but the more he grabs at her the more wound up he slowly, but surely becomes, and eventually with a suppressed grunt and clenched teeth he has to pull back from her prone form. Control has never been his strong suit, but any further and it would be quite irreparable – and he couldn't explain it away. Frowning, cursing silently, his nostril curled in furious unreleased agony, Betelgeuse snaps his fingers all at once. In an instant, they are no longer in the car in the drive-thru or in the Neitherworld at all. Instead, they're back in Lydia's room, securely on her bed instead of leaned back on car seats. And she's still asleep.

With a hard sigh of frustration, the ghost untangles himself from the girl, ever so gently. He rolls off the bed and stands over her, gazing at her with an inextricable look on his face for a few moments before kneeling over her and whispering, "Brought you home on time, darlin'. Just like you asked…."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

_"Brought you home on time, darlin'. Just like you asked…."_

A gruff whisper called to her, delving through the miasma of slumber to draw her forward into consciousness. Hazy, unfocused eyes fluttered open, already adjusted to the darkness that blanketed her bedroom. The shadows were only granted a reprieve by scant moonbeams filtering through the edge of her curtains. He was the first thing she saw.

"B…" She started to say his name, but when she distantly remembered that she had promised not to, her sleep-addled mind twisted it into something else. "Beej?"

He was hovering over her, one arm planted firm and erect beside her head, making her pillow dip. Confused, thoughtlessly seeking comfort, she took his wrist in a weak grip. "Is the movie over?" Her normally lilting voice was rough with sleep, laced with dream dust. She knew without needing to hear his answer that it was, and she had missed it. "Oh, noo," she frowned, brows furrowed in disappointment. "I missed it."

Nevermind that she'd seen it countless times, she'd never seen it like _that _before. Who knew if she ever would again?

"I fell asleep on you," she intoned as if realizing it for the first time, in that wispish way that all freshly woken people spoke. "Did you carry me here?" There was a pang of guilt coloring her query. The words he huffed at her on the beach, when he saved her from the storm and cursed the burden of her weight, came back to her in a mortifying rush. The idea that she had inadvertently inconvenienced him was unpleasant. Her frown sunk deeper. "I'm sorry."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

"_Don't_ ….don't be sorry," he almost growls fiercely, then softens abruptly as if realizing his slip, "No, don't be sorry at all, sweet'eart."

He remains leaning over her for a moment, that rush of desire still lingering, especially as she grabs gently at his wrist... But it's now intertwined with pain, a heavy sensation that lays like a thick blanket inside his middle parts. Is that…._guilt?_ The ghost can barely contain his grimace. _Whatdoyamean GUILT?_ He internally argues, angrily with himself, _we haven't felt guilt for six-hundred years!_ _And we ain't startin' now!_ Oh but there it is, nonetheless, like a good stab right in his stomach. Ow.

That nickname is cute. He almost growls again, because that hurts too, but he stops. "Y'didn't miss too much of it. We can always go again, they like playing that one a bunch. And naw," he's honest with her then, "I didn't carry you. I uhhh," he uses her parlance, "'Poofed' us here. Takes a lot of my energy to do it, but I didn't want to wake y'up." _That part is true._

He hisses out a long, hard sigh. His face is wrinkled with dark unhappiness as if he's reluctant to say anything further. But he goes for it. "Listen, I uh—-" he scowls, "I had a good time…. with you tonight." He almost adds, _and we should never do it again_, but refrains, "But you should know this: the more time I spend with you, the more probable it is that I'm going to like you._ A lot,_" he pushes on the bed for emphasis, making her bounce just a little, "And probably in a way you're not 'xactly ready for. And probably in a way that is illegal in several countries and absolutely legally questionable in at least twelve. _Okay?"_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

His confession brought forth a stab of panic in Lydia. It wasn't as though she didn't already know he wanted sex, but the way the tendons in his wrist strained under her pathetic grip belied a deep- _almost angry-_ frustration. What if she was _never _ready? What if the thought of allowing a man to take her that way- _holding her down, grunting, thrusting, pain-_ always made her gut twist with nausea?

No.

It wasn't fair. Lydia would not allow _him _to steal this from her, too. She would be what she needed to be to keep her husband. She would not go back to what her life was without him.

"I can be ready," she insisted almost desperately, before backtracking. "Just… I just…" He was too close. She couldn't say what needed to be said with him hanging over her like that, crowding her space. Carefully, she slipped out from beneath him until she was sitting up on her pillows, back to the wall. Lydia made no moves to turn on her lamp. It happened in the dark, and in the dark, it would remain.

"When I was little… I was…" She played with the hem of her dress while she tried to find her words, adamantly avoiding eye contact. "Someone-" the muscles in her throat tightened up, preventing her from voicing the unspeakable act aloud. After a beat, she continued, hoping to any powers out there that he understood and she wouldn't have to clarify. "More than once… so… I just- I'm just _scared_, okay? I just need time."

Honey eyes misted with tears she refused to let fall flickered up to meet his, finding enough bravery to let him see the sheer honesty in her next statement. "I don't want you to go."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

Oh.

…

…..

That explains a lot. It takes him a minute to process exactly what she means, and his face turns a few different shades of _something _as he falls silent. Mixed emotions twist in his gut, rage first and foremost, and then a secondary sensation as if the bottom of his stomach has dropped into his feet. It had nothing to do with him, which was something of a relief, but that was vastly overshadowed by all the other things now punching around inside of him.

Guilt washes over him like an ocean, and he sits down hard, back facing her, on the edge of her bed as she sat up. His figure becomes crouched as he leans over his knees, the wind knocked from his sails entirely. He doesn't face her. Instead, he tilts his head somewhat over his shoulder to her after she pleads with him to give her time.

He lights a cigarette, which is the only thing he can think to do. The silence between them lays heavy for a minute before the ghost grinds out a reply. So overwhelmed with something akin to what heart-break must feel like – but he broke it himself, touching her without asking. He's hardly any better than the experience and person she describes most likely. Perhaps worse since she wasn't even awake to fend his attention off, but at minimum he hardly let it get too far too fast.

"I didn't mean it like _that_," he voices, despite it being part of his intention, of course, trying to save some part of his image in some manner…maybe only to himself. His throat dry, his pale face reflecting moonlight from her windows, those dark eyes fully blackened into dark hollows.

He blows out a long volume of smoke with a sigh, "I was just….warnin' you. Had to, in case you didn't feel the same way." He fiddles with his fingers, picking at them, and says, "….you know if you ever tell me, if I ever find out who it is, I'm goin' to kill 'em, right? You know that." He doesn't look at her as he says this, and he is very still in that crouched position. He seems to sense something though, and finally turns around to meet her misty gaze, his face crumpled and frowning. To any other person, he'd look terrifying, an evil looking ghostly mask with pits for eyes that glitter in the dark. Slowly, hesitatingly, he slides a moldy pale hand across the bed to her, its palm open.

"I won't go," he says, his voice soft, but the tone becomes broken as he adds, "But y'gotta know: I have _a nature_, girl. There's gonna be times where…. I'm not gonna be able t'keep ….. t'keep…._from wanting_." And in that, he seems to be apologizing for himself, because he is. And he's not sure how he's different from the person who hurt her, and that's difficult to process too. "But, I know one thing for sure," he adds, after a time, "I know I ain't gonna have it unless you want it, too." Resolve, maybe. _Maybe_.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

Horrible dread curdled in her gut the longer he remained silent. _He was disgusted_. He didn't even _want _her anymore. Why would he? He thought she was a virgin who would grant him the freedom he coveted, not _damaged goods_ that imposed _rules _and couldn't even _fucking cuddle_ without having a panic attack. It was all she could do to suppress the sob crawling up her throat.

But then he started speaking again and all her rising fear dissipated like the smoke from the end of his cigarette. She crawled, almost fumblingly, toward the offered palm and took it resolutely. Firm, but not tight.

_"I know,"_ she whispered in response to his promise not to force her. He didn't look like a demon to Lydia. He looked like the wounded beast from her fairytales, wondering why beauty didn't return his love. "I already knew that. That's not who you are."

Curiously, she ran her fingers along his, tracing his claws and the bits of moss the clung to his cuticles. Both of her own held it softly in her lap, examining while she spoke. It was so very different from hers in almost every way; large, calloused, dirty.

"He's been dead and gone for a long time," she informed grimly, index finger tracing the lines on his palm. The only reason she knew this was from eavesdropping on her father and Delia's late night, drunken conversations. "He paid for his crime. It's over. There's nothing more that needs to be done."

She scooted just a bit closer toward him, easing the stretch of his arm so that it could bend comfortably while she fondled his hand to her fill- _like it was an interesting trinket to be studied or a challenging game to be figured out._

"That's… that experience is all I know. I've never… no one's ever been interested in me before. I've never been on a date until tonight. When you kissed me over there-" she tilted her head toward the vanity, "- that was my first kiss. I don't know what 'want' is supposed to look like or feel like," she bit her lip and rose her gaze to meet his once more before whispering yet another confession, "_but I want to learn_. With you."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

When he asked her_ "why"_ all those years ago, running over her hesitation to try to gain freedom and never earning the answer, her desires regarding death are suddenly put into perspective. He ducks his head slightly as she takes his hand, guilty, ashamed, but still so hopelessly hungry for her touch. As she reassures him, he smiles wryly in the dark. _It is who he is_, but it isn't, too. She doesn't really know who he is, or _what _– he's had things _his way_ for millennia, a life of drinking, whoring and terrorizing the living…and the dead. He'll do anything for the right price. But here this living girl is, challenging all he's ever known. He isn't, though, and will never be _politically correct_ by modern standards. But what he _isn't _is a rapist, and that's a clear line for him, at least.

As she informs him of the monster's fate, he takes a draw with his cigarette with his free hand, the one under Lydia's attention staying quite still as she traces the lines on his palm. His flesh is mottled, the uneven color visible even in the darkness, the green moss indeed having grown between his fingers taking on a blue tint.

"Says you," he finally remarks, in a low voice. He lets it lie after that, though, because _he's going to find that dead guy and his afterlife is going to be so much worse than the exorcized souls closet._

He hunches less, sliding his leg back onto her bed and easing a little against her pillows as she moves closer, reciprocating as she continues to explore his hand. The one she has is the one covered in those dusty, dirty watches and the ruby cabochon ring on his first finger. Juno wears two watches on her ancient wrist, one for the living world and one for the Neitherworld. Betelgeuse has far more, four, indicating he has a track of time and places that are perhaps unknown to almost anyone but him. Two appear to be broken but two still operate, peculiarly, and they tell two different times of course.

At the latter half of her admission, his eyes widen. _Widen_.

"Babes…." He murmurs, leaning in towards her slightly, sympathetically, in genuine surprise. He has _so much_ he could tell her, but it seems irrelevant and ridiculous. He feels a pang. Had he known, that first kiss would have been _way better_ than the over-enthusiastic cartoonish smooch at the fact that she had kept his ring. "Okay. I can show you… teach you…." his everything was getting hot again. "But, generally the idea is that _y'like it_. A lot. Feels good. You want more. A lot more. Of whatever it is. It's somethin' _you _want. And anything _y'don't… _well, you figure out if you like it or not immediately or …. over time." He meets her gaze and keeps it, "I'm not gonna lie and tell you the stuff _I like_ isn't a little weird, though. Just puttin' it out there early babes."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

Something inside of her ignited at his promise to teach her. _Show her_. His already hoarse voice took on a deeper timbre like he was telling her a secret, even as he spoke just a bit faster. As if impatient to get to the lessons. Her pulse fluttered at the thought- not unpleasantly.

_"I'm not gonna lie and tell you the stuff I like isn't a little weird, though. Just puttin' it out there early babes."_

This was given almost like a warning. Like he was trying to give her an out. She didn't want it. Didn't he already know how committed she was to trying to make this work?

"I like _you _and you're weird, so it can't be that bad." When he adjusted even closer, she met him halfway so that they were both leaning backs against the wall, lined up side by side. His boots were scuffing her blankets, but she couldn't bring herself to care at the moment. She knew he would get rid of the mess if she asked. For the time being, Lydia was content to allow him to sully her bed. She drew her legs up, never once pausing her fastidious examination of his hand as she rested it over her knees.

"I like when you touch my hair," she admitted demurely, positive he could see her glowing cheeks through the shadows. "So, you can- you can do that. That's okay."

The idea that had been on her mind the majority of the night finally found its voice.

"Miss Shannon says that ladies aren't supposed to kiss until the third date," she disclosed cryptically, braving a glance to the side, just long enough to make eye contact before dipping her chin down again, "_but I think she's a stuck-up prude-_ and you owe me a better first kiss."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

_"I like you and you're weird, so it can't be that bad."_

She had him there. But he grinned over at her in reply, anyway, lasciviously and mischievously, because he just couldn't help doing so. She might just find out if they get that far. She still had his hand, as if it were some sort of talisman, or comfort thing. So there they lay, side by side, old and young, one in a striped suit and the other in a black day dress. It would make a pretty scene in some sort of avant-garde photography space.

She curls herself up slightly, and he resists the almost overwhelming urge to flip his hand over and caress her legs. No, he's letting her plot the course for now, and the emotional rollercoaster of earlier is still resonating around inside his brain. So he lets his hand rest in hers, on her legs, _without _giving in to his base desires. It's impressive, really. He waits for her to speak again, and eventually, she does.

"Sure," he purrs, regarding her hair, pleased that she had seemingly enjoyed said earlier. He considers what else he could say about her hair that wasn't especially vulgar and settles on, "Your hair feels good between my fingers babe." He knew _that_, of course, when he grabbed her hair first. It was thick and yankable like any good mane should be. The idea of grabbing it while she —- _well. He'll save it for later._

As she talks about kissing though, his brows raise to the top of his head slowly. _Miss Shannon is a prude._ Thank every deity. At least he wasn't going to have to have to plan three more dates before they got anywhere_. It might have killed him. _Again. The man was not good with patience. He simply wasn't. He probably never would be. Currently, this was as patient as he'd been in….well. _A very long time._

At Lydia's demand, though, regarding a better kiss, the ghost had the good sense to at least pretend to be ashamed, with an, "Oh, well, I couldn't agree more, babes. We'll strike the other one from the record. It's like it never happened," he inches closer and closer on his butt with each reassurance, "Gone, vamoosed, nixed, blotted out, canceled." At the last, he is now hip to hip with her, larger than life. Instead of retrieving his hand, he works it around to clasp hers, her smaller one disappearing into it. He leans over her and uses his free hand with cigarette to tilt her chin up to him gently, and he leans down in order to capture her lips with his.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

Even knowing it was coming- _boldly demanding it the way she had-_ she couldn't help but tense as his mouth descended on hers. It was cold, like the rest of him, and just as rough as her initial experience led her to believe. Not quite a gasp so much as a surprised breath parted her own petal-soft lips at the contact, and when closed again they molded around his perfectly. His stubble scratched her chin, reminding her of _how incredibly older than her he was._ It was thrilling- especially with the added knowledge that her parents were passed out cold just feet away. How very scandalous this all was. _Naughty_.

And, _oh_, he was being so patient. He'd barely moved since taking her up in this kiss, letting her dictate and experiment as she wished. This wasn't scary or awful at all. He didn't even taste bad, not like his appearance might lead one to presume. Lydia discovered this when she bravely flicked her tongue against his upper lip- so subtle, so soft that he might not have even noticed it. He tasted like sweet tobacco and dark, hard liquor and something else she would probably never have a name for. Death maybe? Was death supposed to taste good?

She turned her head one way and pushed back, but that position proved awkward, so she tried another way instead. This seemed more right so she stayed there. She needed to do something with the hand that wasn't wrapped up tight in his hold. She was pretty sure she was supposed to do something, not just leave it sitting there in her lap, full of nervous energy. It came to rest on his shoulder, then his neck, curious fingers searching out his hairline, but not sinking into the wiry mass. Flakes of moss fell to her sheets upon making contact. Again, Lydia couldn't bring herself to care.

She needed air. Sucking in droves of it through her nose while it was pressed so close to his face seemed inappropriate, and so she drew back, ending what she was now and forever going to consider her first kiss. Their faces were still close, her hand was still cupping the side of his neck, a glorious flush was still coloring her cheeks, and she gave him a nervous more-than-a-smile-less-than-a-laugh grin. The only words that seemed appropriate in the wake of such an experience were ones that gave him permission to do it again.

"I _liked _that."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

The ghoul's hand tightens around Lydia's as their lips finally meet. He did like that first taste the initial moment he made contact with them, maybe that was the drug that led to the addiction, his fatal mistake that led to _all this_. And she feels as lovely as she did before, those lips soft, pliant, sweetly shy but hungry.

And he can feel that hunger, as muddled as it is with her uncertainty, which in itself makes him practically _thrash _inside his own skin. The monster that curls around inside his chest is awake, and it's raging, ready to consume the poor pale slip of a girl in her entirety. It takes all his concentration to quell it, silence it, and she can feel him shiver out a breath as her tongue actually grazes the upper extremity of his lip. He doesn't…well, he _can't _miss any of her movements, all of his skin is electric and all of her actions are imprinted into his brain like a brand.

His stubble, of course, is a mixture of gritty messily shaved facial hair and soft moss. His skin is actually surprisingly soft itself, if cold, but in that way that indicates age more than youth. His cheeks are fleshy, and his lips are similar, plush, and despite being chapped they seem to warm slowly the more her own meet his. As her arm gently wraps around his shoulder, those delicate fingers curiously exploring the nape of his neck and the edges of where his hair meets it, he makes a noise into her mouth that is _positively lewd,_ unable to stop it from escaping. His neck is surprisingly thick and strong, actually, and she might be able to feel the strain he's mildly under, there, his muscles taut with concentration. She isn't deterred by his moss, either, which for someone who is living is exceptional – he was almost sure that at least would give the girl pause. But it doesn't, even when it flakes off, and it makes some inner part of him _glad_.

She draws back eventually, _oh right, the living need to breathe,_ and even though he doesn't his nostrils are still flared in heady breaths himself. He is on the verge of passing out or something equally as strange, he's fairly sure, the intensity of the moment making his vision swim ever so slightly – and she can probably feel his hand shaking atop hers. But she _liked _it. And so he smiles, and slowly drags his hand up into that hair he so lovingly covets and squeezes it right at her neck, gently, but using his strength just enough to anchor himself firmly.

"Good, 'cause you're _really _gonna like this."

He breathes it hovering over her lips before claiming them again, a little less restrained this time. There's only so long he can keep his nature from escaping, that hot lust that simmers under his cold skin, and so he gives her a taste of it _because he can't really help himself_ and because she needs to _know_. He loses himself then, just enough, his other hand releasing hers in order to fully wrap around her slight frame something like a snake, hitching under her shoulders and tipping her towards him as if to let him drink of this pool that much deeper. He's insistent, his mouth meeting Lydia's again and again, tongue occasionally grazing hers, her warmth reaching frozen bones as he gets drunk off the taste of her. Eventually, he is forced to release her with a soft, breathy hiss, his hand tangled in her locks tugging her away from him.

"Stop—-" is all he can grate out in a half-growl, and it isn't clear if he's telling poor Lydia this or himself. He rests his head on her shoulder, and probably to her surprise, it's clammy as if he'd been sweating. "….stop—" he breathes out, "We need to…..ssss….stop."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

Where before his touch electrified, drawing gooseflesh with its chill, it now burned. She was on fire and he was the only one who could put it out. _This was kissing_. What they had done just seconds before was child's play, she knew that now. Following an ancient dance she wasn't aware she knew the steps to, his furor was matched with her own brand of clumsy, undisciplined passion.

When his teeth nibbled at her lips, she mirrored, soothing them immediately afterward with bold swipes of her tongue in a silent apology for biting too hard, for being too excited, for not knowing any better. Once more, her muscles were taut and rigid, but for an entirely different reason this time. A strong arm snaked around her middle, pulling, and she followed eagerly, sliding her leg over his until she was settled in his lap. This felt good. Right. _God_, he was an excellent teacher. One tiny pale hand clutched at his shoulder while the other clenched at his button-up beneath his jacket; grabbing, squeezing, raking fingernails over the grimy, off-white fabric. Following the sensations, looking for _anything _that might douse that fire, her hips undulated without her permission. She writhed against him; pushing and pulling and taking anything he had to offer because fuck she wanted it all.

Stop.

_"Why?"_ She moaned like a slut as he yanked her hair almost painfully, inspiring a wave of unbearable heat. It shot down her spine like a bullet before settling heavily low in her belly. So once more with petulant disobedience, she ground against him in an effort to relieve the horrible, wonderful pressure. He _growled_, baring teeth, before resting his head on her shoulder and resorting to begging.

Shaken by the unusual behavior, Lydia attempted to gather herself. It was then that she realized exactly what she had been pushing herself against for the duration of their tryst. It was heavy, hard, and unmistakably _big_. She froze. _Oh_. Oh, oh no, yes, this needed to stop. Immediately, she scrambled off of his lap to the other side of the bed. Cheeks aflame, normally pink lips red, swollen, and slick with saliva, she doggedly avoided looking at his obvious erection.

"Sorry," she mumbled, her go-to response to any kind of discourse. She _had _been terribly forward. This discomfort of his was her fault.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

It's mainly her undisciplined nature that gets him – that she's eager, curious, and _interested_. Before he breathlessly requests her stoppage, the sensation of her teeth, his hunger matched, as they send prickles of pain when she bites just a little too hard leaves him entirely forgetting to breathe altogether.

As she settles into his lap, it is both so much better and _that much worse_, especially as her hands claw and pull at him, demandingly, stoking him on for _more_. And her hips…when they do move, cause a low, warning growl in the ghoul's throat, and it is at that moment _he knows he must make his request._

"Why?"

_She's going to kill him right in this bed. It's a homicide._

He knows, he knows she knows not what she does, and he knows, in his slimy heart, she knows not what she's asking for. The heat of her thighs straddling him, grinding against him, it's too much. He's pulsing, aching, and burning in a way that if she doesn't escape his claws _at this moment_ they will be down a road that's hardly fit for a girl like her after a single date. But the monster in him is _glad_. It's glad, knowing this girl has this _potential_, this heated, wanton desire that's just under a few layers of mixed feelings and that he can coax it from her. _This was easy_ – in the scheme of things. Once she was primed, she was quickly stoked to hot, and the thing that twisted inside his belly was pleased, far too pleased over it.

The moment that Lydia realizes _what she's grinding against_ though, that's an expression he's going to file away and keep in some secret drawer to pull out later. She has it, now, the full idea as to where this might be headed, and a great wave of relief washes over him and makes Betelgeuse sigh and chuckle in turn. As she literally _flees _from his arms and off across to the end of the bed, rumpled and flushed, he leans back on his wrists and laughs. Not at her, certainly, but more because it releases him from the impending doom that certainly would have befallen both of them if she had kept with her heated insisting. She looked good like that, lips parted in some form of shy embarrassment, glimmering in the dim light from his prior attention. The promise of other things leaving that sheen weighs on his predatory mind and makes it purr. Her eyes were so bright, glanced away, trying not to look at his quite obvious state of arousal – _yes, darlin', it is that big, and that scary_. His fingers curl into her sheets to keep him from pouncing or prowling across her bed….for now.

"I think you know the _why_, now," he finally says, voice low, pleased, "This is gonna take you to a place where we can't go back again. I'll _leave y'changed_, babes, and I'm not gonna shortchange you _the rest of this_." He says the last with a bit of determination, 'this' indicating their budding romance, dates and the rest, and he finally releases the sheets in order to slide halfway on his side towards her, like a giant prone cat. It seems to be some sort of reassurance that he's harmless, and he adds, "I'll be good though. Till y'know what you're askin' for."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

_What is _wrong _with me?_ Lydia pondered in abject horror at her actions, pressing hands to her flaming cheeks. They were still somewhat cool from how desperately she'd been clutching at his frigid flesh through his clothing. That was just supposed to be a kiss and it had so quickly derailed into something she hadn't thought she was even capable of. Had this always been inside of her? Or was he just so well-versed in the female form that coaxing out her inner Jezebel was a walk in the park?

Even though they were now separate, her blood still raced, her heart still pounded, and a secret bunch of muscles she didn't know existed ached- powerful, throbbing pangs that wanted her to crawl back into his lap and curl up like a kitten until they had been soothed. Pent-up energy trembled her entire body and for the second time that night she bid the humiliating tremors to _please stop_. He seemed perfectly composed- _he even laughed, the bastard-_ aside from the claws digging into her sheets, threatening to tear into the expensive designer fabric that Delia insisted on.

_Delia!_ This mess had to go before he left for the night. There were bootprints all across her bed- _in more concentrated places than the last time he left them-_ and stray cigarette butts littered the floor. He'd been smoking like a chimney ever since they showed up back here.

_"I'll be good though. Till y'know what you're askin' for."_

Lydia tried to bring her gaze back to his out of propriety, but once more curious eyes drifted unbidden to his crotch, only to fly straight up to the ceiling when they saw how excited he still was. "O-okay," she stuttered, "I didn't mean- uhm… I wasn't _trying _to, uh…_ are you okay?"_

She settled, the meaning behind her genuinely worried inquiry quite obvious. From what she had seen and heard on television and from eavesdropping on other girls her age, it could actually hurt men to go without when they were that riled up. She hated the thought that she was _hurting _him. Even more, the thought of doing something about it. Even more_, the thought of _someone else_ doing something about it._

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

If he could hear her inner monologue, Betelgeuse would probably unhelpfully assure her that she did indeed have an inner Jezebel, that _all women_ did, and remind her that she landed herself _the most eligible bachelor_ this side of the Neitherworld. But he can't hear her inner monologue, and that's probably for the best.

She's tremulous and clearly overwhelmed, and Betelgeuse can see that fire smouldering as she comes down from a peak. He is still hungry enough to want to sink his claws in again, but he knows that if he pushes it he'll lose out on something much better later – and knowing that is enough to keep him satiated. Or at least, patient enough. She's beautiful like this, all of her nerves electric, her face flushed and those petite lips worked into such consternation. As she steals a secondary glance, the look on his face is _far too pleased_ with himself, stretched languidly now across her bed. As she wonders about him, ensuring he's alright, he can't help but laugh aloud. The very idea is more than hilarious to him, but he's not laughing at her, just….well, _that's adorable_. The more reaction she has regarding him and his current state, the more fiendishly happy he is.

"Oh, this fella?" he points downwards his tone asking in faux-innocence, and then he crosses his arms behind his head impishly, "He'll be alright, he goes away after a while. 'S what happens when the goin' gets real good, babes. Consider it a compliment," and he winks saucily.

He runs his tongue along his lips again, that predatory gleam still in his eye as it remains fixed on Lydia, but suddenly he startles and looks at his broken watches as if they'd alerted him to something.

"Oh uh," he mumbles, tapping one of them. "I hate t'cut this short sweetheart, but…. I think I kept y'up too late again. Not that I'd say I'm sorry 'bout it, 'cause I'm not. But I should get out of your hair. Literally. Probably," he snickers, showing his dirt-stained teeth, "Unless you wanna play hooky and mess around sommor," at that, he waggles his eyebrows, knowing she'd most likely (and smartly) turn that down.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

Betelgeuse's easy, nonchalant reassurance regarding the state of his exorbitant arousal managed to ease some of her societally ingrained shame- and served to make him that much more approachable despite it.

"Oh," Lydia began, inching closer on her knees, "you can't keep me up too late." There was nothing in her expression to indicate she was aware of the double meaning in her innocent quip. "I don't have school for the next three days. It's canceled tomorrow because of… you know… _you_."

Realizing that she was probably coming off as a bit too eager, she retracted. "But, you can go _if you want_. I'm just saying- I mean-" Her knees were brushing the wiry mass of his hair as he lay sprawled out like a cat before her. A thick curtain of wavy raven hair cast a shadow over her face as she dipped her head down and to the side, considering him. He really wasn't all that scary. Not nearly as much as he probably thought he was. _"I'm not averse to kissing more,"_ she finally admitted secretly, daring to trace his lips and see if she'd left any damage in her wake. She had been biting on him pretty ferociously, she remembered bashfully. "I could obviously use the practice. Did I hurt you? Can you feel pain?"

That was one of those questions Adam and Barbara wouldn't answer for her. Maybe her husband would give her an adequate response.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

_Ah dammit._ He gave her a beautiful, shining out of the situation, and here she is, refusing to take it. And she's moving closer. _Naughty, naughty, naughty girl. Didn't anyone teach you not to mess with ghosts, anyway?_

As she reminds him that he royally did her school for a few days in by creating an immense plumbing problem, he grunts – well, there went that excuse. Hmm. The view from down there was _pretty good_, besides, once her knees manage to brush against the edges of his thin and wild hair and the position she takes up….well, that's immensely distracting to poor Betelgeuse anyway. If he tilted his head up juuuust enough he could root around under her shirt with his face. He utters a groaning sigh of restraint through his lips, squinting up at her through that wild forest of black hair. His jade eyes follow her questioning, curious gaze. _Oh, that look._ He knows that look. It's the look a woman gives him when she's feeling _particularly playful_ – and it's a look that Lydia shouldn't even be giving him yet. But there she is, doing it. _Shit. Shit shit shit shi—_

He wasn't even really focusing on what she was saying, other than she was saying it in a coy tone, offering him an out of some ridiculous kind. Her finger traces his pale, full lips, and he swallows once, audibly. That feels delicious, almost as good as the teeth that were punishing them earlier. His eyes practically flutter, and he breathily murmurs to her, "Mmmmmm, practice makes perfect, babes," he grins, then, mischievously, all his teeth showing and his nose wrinkled, "Pain? You should step on my neck in your boots sometime and find out."

His tongue snakes out, once, and then his face wrinkles into a mask of _very bad intentions._ In a moment, quicker than she could have expected, he's flipped himself over and used her unpreparedness to pounce her. His much heavier physical weight makes it easy, besides, and it's clear his intention is not to hurt her, but certainly to overpower her, and quickly. The hand tracing his lips is gripped by the wrist firmly and held above her head, pinning her there onto the mattress – and he's not even _trying_, but his iron grasp is unmovable. His body is larger than hers, and as he straddles her hips and settles down onto her petite form it's clear that he's not easily resisted. She can feel that, for all his cold skin, some parts of him are very warm and almost engulf her. He practically makes the mattress creak as he pushes her into it.

_"No more fucking around then, princess." _

He was going to show her again of what she asked, and in a swift movement, he claims her mouth again, his free hand sliding back into her hair and gripping it, pulling it just enough to cause pressure. His tongue is more demanding, this time, and she can tell it's almost too big for her mouth to handle.

He relinquishes her delicious lips after he's gotten her fully breathless, leaning up briefly with a thin line of drool, only to give her hair a more firm tug, insisting she bare her neck to his attention. His kisses sear down that long, graceful skin, his wispy and wiry blond hair tickling the underside of her chin as he does so.

"Yer gonna kill me, babes," he grumbles huffily into her collarbone, "Y'know that, _right?"_ And then he bites her there, right in the crook of her neck, just enough, once ….and then twice for flinching.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

His next move was so quick she couldn't help the quick intake of breath at his supernatural rapidity, oxygen streaming out and deflating her chest as he expeditiously reversed their positions. Each of her wrists was gathered into a rough, calloused palm, his unyielding weight pressed down on her, making the mattress springs whine, and her hair was once more tangled in his grasp. She was caught, pinned, as though he was about to do something he thought she would run away from. In direct contrast of all of his reassurances, everything he had patiently, painstakingly led her to believe about him and his character, a cold tingle of fear tainted her rising excitement.

_"No more fucking around then, princess."_

This did absolutely nothing to help. She did _ask _for this, didn't she? Still, she didn't mean _this_. Lydia meant to maybe engage him in a handful of shy, explorative kisses to sate her budding curiosity before sending him away for the night. This was a doom of her own creation. She deserved whatever he gave her, and it appeared he was in agreement. A frightful _"wait-"_ was able to make it past her lips in a hurried rush before he took her mouth for his own, unwilling or unable to listen. Lydia had been considering his previous kisses rough, gruff and full of just a bit more passion than she thought she was able to match. Apparently, he was holding back. _This was violent_. He ravaged her mouth, taking whatever he wanted from her, dominating so thoroughly that reciprocation- _even if she wanted to, she wasn't given a chance to decide-_ was not an option.

The roaring flames were back, his assault pouring gasoline over the dwindling embers in her belly. Yet, there was a wild panic behind these that threatened to burn her alive. Would he stop if she asked? Could he? Would she? Just when she thought she would die from lack of oxygen- _her head felt so light, chest tight and burning-_ he granted her a modicum of mercy and moved his scorching attention down her neck.

_"Yer gonna kill me, babes,"_ his stubble scraped her flesh as he spoke, _"y'know that, right?"_

Out of her depth, she countered with the only reply that made sense. "_You're already dea-"_

Filthy, blunted teeth sunk into her neck- once, twice. She cried out torturously, fragments of pleasure in the pained sound. Her imagination chose this moment to conjure an image of him she often dwelt on. It was from years before, when he took out her father, Delia, and Otho one by one before finally, inevitably cornering her; rows of jagged, unsightly sharp teeth curled into a ghastly grin. She had been so certain that death was imminent, so absolute in her assessment of the situation, so ready. Now? She didn't know what to expect.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

If there's one thing Betelgeuse is familiar with, its fear. The smell of it. The taste of it, exactly what the living look like when they're afraid. And despite enjoying it _far too much_ – nothing gets him more electric than scaring the living half to death or _more than that_, he can absolutely taste some of it on poor Lydia's skin after he accosts her neck. The noises, though, that he elicits from her are _beautiful_. Oooohh, yes, yes, he likes those _far too much_.

But, he can also sense when he's got going a little too far, and he raises those intense, wide, jade, eyes up at her from where he stays nestled on her shoulder momentarily after abusing her poor skin. He _absolutely _wants to leave more marks on her delicate neck but he stops, completely, wrestling down his base desires. He releases her wrists, too, in order to stroke a thumb along her cheek, silently, claw grazing that pale visage. She's almost as pale as he, but flushed skin indicates that life-blood still flowing. His ear is close enough to her chest to almost hear her heart thundering, and the ghoul that he is guiltily thrills at it.

"I am already dead," he murmurs, "But this is the closest I get to livin', babes." And that's true, too. Engaging on this level of heated lust is another way of clawing out of the grave. He can still feel, still love, still remain desirous.

"You don't have t'be frightened unless that makes it fun," he adds, in almost an apologetic tone, a smile quirking at the edges of his pallid lips, "Lesson two," he holds up two mottled fingers, "You have the leash, darlin'. Whenever I get ah—-too much, you can always tell me to knock it off, and I will. Deal?"

Long ago, that might not have been the deal at all. He had intentions for her back then, but how unclear they were, perhaps even to him. Desire and pride thrummed his many ribs then. The animal in him was at peak form in those moments, deadly, Oedipus-like, having disposed of her father and sent her mother scrambling. If it hadn't been for Barb and Adam, things might have turned out much differently. He remembers her scent, too, _convinced of her own demise_, poor thing. But he has her, now, in so much a different way…and he's going to keep her, even if it means tying a knot in the snake he really and truly is.

He remains squarely sat on her hips for now, though, "The sun's comin' up, and I should go," he murmurs, sincerely, rising to look into her eyes, "You're a good girl, Lyds. You're a beautiful girl. I'm a monster but I'm _your _monster now." His head dips again, but only to give her a very sweet, very surprisingly soft kiss.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

_"You have the leash, darlin'. Whenever I get ah—-too much, you can always tell me to knock it off, and I will. Deal?"_

"Deal," agreed tremulously, breathless and flustered. Once more, she was struck by how _extremely _good at this he was. The man had practically attacked her, but in the grand scheme of things, she _did _like it. The fear _was _fun– not that she would admit that right now. Enough embarrassing confessions had filled the air tonight to leave her cringing for an eternity. There didn't need to be anymore.

When he kissed her again, soft and sweet, declaring himself _hers_, her heart almost burst from the torrent of emotion flooding it. _Beautiful_. There he went again, plying her with pretty, pretty lies. She wouldn't argue with him, though she wished she could see what he saw. It seemed petty to debate what constituted "attractive" with this chubby, moldy, bug-eating fiend who was very quickly replacing Lydia's unclear, muddled idea of what "sexy" was supposed to be.

"And I'm _yours_," she clarified in case he didn't already know, craning her neck up for another kiss, still hungry for more. He kept himself just out of reach, making her work for the barely there brush of their flesh. It appeared he couldn't be seduced into more kissing, then. Probably smart of him. She eyed the red-gold sunbeams invading her bedroom with distaste. Aside from all the other reasons she had to dislike the sun- _there were plenty-_ it represented his departure, and that only made her heart ache more.

"When will I see you again?" She wondered, hoping she wasn't coming off as needy as she felt. Lydia was starved for attention and he was practically drowning her in it. If she wasn't careful, she would become dependant on him.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

He could see doubt in Lydia's features as he complimented her but didn't remark on it, or acknowledge it in the moment. He would have never have gotten as far as he has without being a relatively good reader of people – he likes the most to get into people's brains, see what makes them tick. His calling card on the Maitlands was lost, they were too dumb to understand his work…if he could make _them _so viscerally uncomfortable at first blush, _obviously_, he could do the same, and worse, to the Deetzs. His entire purpose was to be gross, horrific, disgusting, boorish, and challenging. What good is calling a scary monster who _isn't a scary monster?_ But each time, they thwarted him, stopped his work and interrupted his flow – as if they didn't want the Deetz's out at all. Which, as it turns out, they didn't. _Losers_. He got his, anyway.

Ah, if only the girl could indeed see what the ghoul saw in her. She was so much more than the sum of her parts. Intelligent, attractive and despite her fragility she was immensely brave. No one living could have ever reacted to the Neitherworld as she had, as if she _belonged there_ in some strange fashion. She rode out the tantrums and anger of one of the most powerful denizens of that place – himself. She endured him, and now, purported to give herself to him entirely. Something inside him snarled with glee, all of him _disastrously happy_ for it, though the sensation doesn't reach his features. He does, however, keep just far enough away from her lips after that initial kiss. _Temptress_. She knows not what she does to him. Not yet. Off in some far distant thought he has the desire to flick a snake-tongue against her face and hiss at her in contentment…his more conscious reckoning has the distinct idea she wouldn't like it, though.

And that final question.

_"When will I see you again?"_

He almost feels bad for her. Almost. But more so, he feels bad for himself. Every part of him is aching beyond reason, and his desire to slake himself only resides with her now. He won't rest until he claims her. More than once. And that will take some time.

"Soon," he murmurs, reassuringly, stroking his rough hand gently through her hair, unable to resist, "I have t'set up our next dates, y'know. Gonna be hard to top this one, but I think Vincent Price will find ya good company. I know I do," he taps her nose lightly once, before floating off her bed and onto the floor. He adjusts his rumpled suit, and with a quick wink, all the dirt, cigarettes, mold flakes and other mess is thoroughly gone, her wrinkled sheets straightened right underneath her. She lives exactly opposite in the manner in which he does, but he's happy to acquiesce to her. "If you need me, though, you can always call me, babes." And part of him hopes she would, because he's a greedy little thing.

"And oh," he adds, "I'd wear a uh….. scarf for the next….week or so."

And then he's gone.


	6. The Dog

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

It was an entire week before she called him again, overly sensitive and hurt that she was having to reach out to him like some clingy bad date. She was his _wife _and he was her _husband_, damnit. They were married, had played a dangerously delicious kissing game, and had already professed that they belonged to each other. He should call her. _That's just how it worked._ He knew she was waiting for him, the bastard. What could he possibly be doing that was so important? That last thought was one she tried very hard not to dwell on lest her insecurities got the best of her.

Besides, Lydia had so much to tell him! He would be pleased to learn that Claire and Stacy had been pulled out of Miss Shannon's School for Girls at the insistence of their parents and were now being _homeschooled _by private tutors- a fact that Lydia derived a wicked pleasure from, regardless of how much she disapproved of the events that led them there. She remembered the way the blondes used to mercilessly ridicule the handful of homeschooled girls that so graciously received invites to their school functions. Courtesy is key, Miss Shannon would say, urging her students to be polite to the poorly socialized newcomers. On this, Lydia and her teacher agreed. Without common courtesy and decency- _concepts Betelgeuse obviously found foreign-_ she wouldn't have gotten nearly as far in reasoning with him.

In addition to her bullies' continued punishment, Lydia had also made a new… _friend_. Man's best friend, to be exact. She first noticed him on Friday, much later in the evening. The house felt stifling in the wake of her wanton, otherworldly adventures and so she departed for the cemetery, yearning for another taste of something dead. Halfway along the shaded path that led to the necropolis, she realized she was being followed. It was big, dark in color, and crept quietly a ways past the line of trees- stalking. Her first thought was _wolf_. Her second thought was that she was _alone_. The third was that it was time to call Betelgeuse. Then, reason reminded her that it had been _less than a day_, and besides, wolves rarely attacked humans. She would hardly classify as a decent snack to an enormous beast like that. There were plenty of fat deer in these woods this time of year.

Lydia never did have a very well developed sense of self-preservation.

So, she continued to the cemetery and didn't return home until nightfall, when it was time to feed her inept parents. Eyes could be felt watching her the entire time. On Saturday she went looking for it, having nothing better to do. After all, what if it was hurt or scared? What if it wanted help from her but had seen cruelty from humans in the past and didn't know how to trust? Heartbroken at the notion, she stole one of the thick, fat, juicy steaks that was supposed to be a part of dinner and stashed it away in her bag. Then, she headed straight for the woods.

Almost immediately upon leaving the house, she felt the sensation of being watched. Clinging to a sixth sense she wasn't aware of, she accepted and followed it- rather than shaking it off as heebie-jeebies, as any ordinary individual might. Lydia was rewarded for her efforts. Minutes into her descent into the forest, the beast was in her sights again- and _beast _was the only word to fit this creature. It looked like a rottweiler, but it was _massive_. Far larger than any dog should be, as though its entire life it had eaten nothing but steaks much fatter than the one Lydia had to offer. Its sheer size alone was almost enough to convince her she was making a mistake until she caught sight of its ears and tail. _They were clipped._

He was bred for _fighting_. This was a creature that had seen absolutely nothing but the darkest pits of what humanity had to offer. Sympathetic tears misted over her gaze and she sat right down on the forest floor, taking up a submissive position that showed she meant no harm, and revealed the steak. "Hey, boy," she called gently, holding the slab of meat out in his direction, waving it enticingly. In the distance, the beast perked up. "Yeah, you want this? I brought it _just for you_, handsome."

The creature's drooling maw fell into a giant, panting dog grin, as if he perfectly understood everything that was just said to him and was ready for more of the same. Now that it had been given permission, it bounded right toward her without a second's hesitation. Lydia eeked, surprised by his eagerness, and tossed the steak. _"Betel-!"_ She cried out reflexively, before catching herself. The dog had caught the meat mid-air and was in the midst of gnawing at it happily, belly to the ground, knub wriggling in joy. _Phew_.

Within seconds, the steak was gone and the dog was sniffing in her direction curiously. She offered him a palm, which he promptly licked any residual steak juice off of. Tentatively, she attempted scratching the top of his head. Immediately, he collapsed down into the bed of dirt, grass, and twigs, aggressively nuzzling into the offered affection and presenting his belly for more. _He was a big baby!_

His name was Beelzebub- she knew this because of the tag that hung from his viciously spiked leather collar. However, it didn't boast a home address, owner's name, or phone number. The terrified local vet could not be bribed to give him a checkup and see if he had a chip. Lydia didn't blame him. Bubby- her nickname for the sweet boy- growled viciously at everyone who came within hearing distance of her. While Lydia found his fierce protectiveness sweet and loved him all the more for it, she knew that she would have to break him of this behavior or Delia would never allow him inside the house. The first time she tried, the insufferable redhead nearly pissed her pants from terror. _"He won't hurt you! He's a __good boy__, he's just confused! Stop screaming like that, you're scaring him!"_

Bubby apparently wasn't deterred by sleeping outside. Like a vigilant stone lion, he sat at the end of the driveway every day until she left the house, before bounding to her side. He even took to haunting the outside of Miss Shannon's when she was in class. Animal control had been called several times by both her parents and administrative staff, but they weren't smart or fast enough to catch her sweet baby.

_Would he treat Betelgeuse the same as he had everyone else?_ Lydia was dying to know. However, when _an entire fucking week_ passed and her husband still hadn't graced her mirror with his ghastly visage, she took matters into her own hands.

"Betelgeuse," she demanded, a twinge of hurt showing through as she tapped firmly at her mirror's surface and waited. Once should be enough to get his attention.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

Betelgeuse, unfortunately for Lydia, wasn't _about _to call her. The moment he stepped away from her bedroom and across the threshold into the Neitherworld, he was lost to the light of her heart – and he indulged _every single one_ of his worst instincts in a horny, egotistical rampage. He was on hour twelve of sending tsunamis and plagues across the entirety of the lands of the dead in revenge, having filled the waiting room with rotted pudding and venomous snakes (_sorry Adam and Barb—except not_), when finally Juno gave in. He had placed himself hovering over Sandworm land on Saturn in his ridiculous car, taking pot-shots of them when the caseworker appeared in her tightly tailored pants suit and pearls in his back seat.

"B," she grated out, exhausted, cigarette in her hand, "If you stop all this, I have a _job _for you."

The car creaked as the ghoul whipped around, glaring over his shoulder. He smiled one of those horrible grim grins that indicated he knew _exactly _when someone's balls were in his vice, and stomped over the hood to look down at her past the windshield.

"I stopped workin' for ya a long time ago, Junebug."

She held up a hand, her face pained.

"It pays, it pays."

She knew how to speak his language, and the ghost sniffed. "How much?"

The two negotiated for a moment, before seeming to reach something of a conclusion the ghost could agree to. In a blink, he transported them back to Juno's office, suddenly dressed in a very slick suit. They had been trying to catch him all day, but his powers were too strong now, it was impossible. So, they had to do what they could: _make a deal - keep him busy._

It helped that there was no job the ghoul liked better than getting paid for _free reign_. It was far more fun than undirected destruction – while that was proving to be entertaining, it certainly wasn't a match for getting into someone's home, their safety, their minds, and fucking around. Plus, he could practice for what he was going to do to the Maitlands and the Deetzes, because they were still on his list. But for this assigned job it was simple: out, Juno had said – you just need to get them out. _Well_, he reasoned, _you've called the right guy._

As he left the office, Juno sighed deeply, pained, her fingers caressing her temples. "By the way," she said, practically into her desk with misery, "congratulations on your wedding."

* * *

"_I can't let you hurt anyone."_

Lydia's deal remained unbroken, as far as the ghost was concerned. She hadn't _let _him do anything, i.e., she hadn't given him permission. For the past day he'd been hurting everyone he came across and living for it. Betelgeuse knew she didn't know how to negotiate a proper deal, and that was towards his benefit - he just had to do it out of her sight and then the terms would be met. She would be _deeply unhappy_ knowing his activities for the past half a week. And for some reason, this only made him _happier in doing it._

Rules were not something Betelgeuse did very well with, he was a hedonistic evil sprite at his core, ready to lash out at a world that had been so unkind to him from the start. He felt _owed _and _grievous_, and that pain and hurt that coiled deep in his psyche motivated his darkest impulses. While Lydia relieved some of that anguish and anger, it still fueled most of him, and he was itching to do terrible things to the victims that Juno had so kindly delivered to him on a platter. He vaguely thought he heard his name once, or part of it, a tiny tug pulled at him…but it seemed to only be a passing halfway start. Some evil part of him hoped it was Lydia crying out into her bedsheets. He likes the idea of that far too much.

Like a maestro in his perfect element, Betelgeuse did his work with a nasty precision – the very nature of his existence aligning perfectly with what needed to be done. It was _almost _as beautiful as his Maitlands scheme, but that was woefully imperfect. He hadn't counted on Barb, _the fucking Sandworm whisperer_. But there was no Barb here. No one to recall him. No one to say his name three times. That was all done now. In the house's wreckage, he was indeed bio-exercising another house of _conflicting family values,_ he inhaled deeply in satisfaction.

Maybe he'll buy Lyds something nice after this.

* * *

It took him a night to recover from the work. He did a quick check at the Roadhouse through his mirror to ensure his _intermediary _had been properly doing his job – what he caught was Delia screaming about monstrous slobbering beasts and _get him out of my house_. Perfect. Beautiful. Drained, the ghost spent the remaining Neitherworld hours of his frustrated, pent-up lusty state spent buried deep in his coffin bed. The dreams that came to him were _outrageous _even by his standards, absolutely indecent, obscene, and prurient imaginings entertained him for hours. They all, of course, centered around poor Lydia and all he was going to do to her once he properly could sink his claws into her, _once she was ready_. He had scared her in the moments that he gave her a glimpse of what his brand of lust brought along with it, and if she could see into his mind she'd most likely only be frightened further.

He awakes with a start. The pounding of his mirror pounds right into his heart, even though for Lydia it's only a simple knock on the surface of the glass. He startles up. _What day was it? What time was it?_ He had almost completely lost the concept in the past week, _had it been a week?_ Disoriented, he blinked as his visage shimmered to the surface of her mirror. He smacked his lips and began to climb into her room like an over-fed cat, forcing her to move back until he sat on her vanity with a cup of steaming coffee. He slurped from it loudly and seemed to greet the morning sun, looking as rumpled as anything, his velvet bathrobe and pajama pants similar to the set he wore after that night at the cathouse.

"Mornin' Lyds," he says, perfectly unperturbed by her _clearly annoyed expression_, "What's got yer goat?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

That… that _jerk!_ How dare he just mozy on into her bedroom like nothing was wrong, armed with coffee and dressed like that. Lydia herself still wore her own nightgown- it was early in the morning- but she recognized that outfit _very well_. Against her will, images of him tangled up in sheets with blue-skinned, blonde-haired, voluptuous beauties flashed across her mind. Her heart clenched.

"Where _were _you?!" It took tremendous effort to keep her voice from cracking. Looking at him was painful, nevermind how much she had longed to do so since he left, and so she whipped her back on him to cross the room and light incense. _Frankincense; to free the mind and release intense emotions._ "It's been a week," she disclosed pitifully, absolutely hating the pout in her voice._ "I missed you."_

The angry discoloration on her neck was almost completely faded. Lydia had made no moves to hide it from anyone the way he assumed she would want to. Let them see. Let them know that the creepy, ugly little Deetz girl was_ up to no good_. For the first time all week, she hid the little pink mark from view, self-consciously sliding a tiny palm up to cover it, ashamed of her pride. _He said he was _hers- and she _his_. Lydia wasn't sure if she had the capacity to endure the kind of pain he might one day bring her if this- _if that-_ was a lie. It would destroy her.

"Nothing's keeping you here," she reminded him coldly, lashing out in an attempt to shield her heart. "If you don't want to see me, then go away and don't come back. I won't call you ever again and you can have your _'marriage of inconvenience.'"_ There was no masking the venom in the echoed phrase, dressed up with a thinly veiled layer of bitter agony.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

"Alright alright," the ghost groused, wrinkling his nose and hopping off her vanity, suddenly in the same old striped suit he enjoyed wearing the most. "Don't get your panties in a bunch, Lyds. Fer one, it's hard to keep track of time in the Neitherworld. I have these watches," he holds up his en-watched wrist, "But they're only so helpful."

He paws the front of his suit and follows her as she whirls angrily around her room, "Second," he says, leaning into her ear obnoxiously, "I missed you too. But after what y'did to me back there," he jerks his thumb to indicate _the past_, "Yer man had to calm down a little, okay?" he sniffs, "Nothin' untoward. Just a week of cold showers babes. And I had to work. I still have to work, you know? I'm a workin' man."

He reaches into his jacket breast, pulling out a large stack of Neitherworld money, "I had t'get paid so I can get you nice things," he replaces the cash once he seems to display the evidence there. "But, that bein' said…."

He inhales and puts his grubby hands on her shoulders. She wasn't _wrong_, and he did feel _bad_. He just needed to get the octane out of his system.

"You can always call me. I didn't mean for it to take a week. I'm sorry. I wish I could tell you more than that, babes, but I can't. It isn't that you're stupid, it's just that _when I'm around you I have difficulty concentrating_ and I wanna do this right," he says, in something of a rush, but its true, "For that, I need patience babes. I don't have patience. The week was to _center my chi_. Batten down the hatches. Make sure I'm at least _somewhat _rational around you, okay? But I sent a mindful eye to keep a watch on you, make sure you're safe n' such," the ghoul winks, "You probably didn't see 'em, I told 'em to keep his big mangy self outta sight. He's a bit more drooly than me, I wager, though. But only just a bit."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

At his clarifications, Lydia immediately felt like an immature, spoiled little brat. Here he was working- the fact that he had a job alone was fascinating to her, but she shelved it for later- like an adult, earning money so he could provide for her like a proper husband. Not that Lydia was in any need of financial assistance, or that his strange Neitherworld currency would do her any good here. In the wake of her childish fit, she couldn't bear the thought of him wasting any of his hard-earned cash on a silly trinket for her.

"It's okay. No, no- _I'm _sorry," she offered bashfully, ardor crumbling away into nothing beneath his firm, assured grip. At this distance, she had to crane her neck to look up at him. "I was just upset. I've been waiting. Girls aren't _supposed _to call guys. It means they're needy and desperate."

Nevertheless, needy and desperate is exactly how Lydia felt despite all efforts to the contrary. His breath smelt like coffee and she had a bold impulse to throw her arms around his neck, engage him in another kissing game, and see if the taste of it had lingered. Lydia loved coffee. The impulse was ignored in favor of poking a little fun at him instead.

"Don't lie to me," she accused impishly and picked at a bit of moss on his jawline. "Cold or not, you haven't showered. Not once, this entire week, and probably a lot longer than that."

_"You probably didn't see 'em, I told 'em to keep his big mangy self outta sight. He's a bit more drooly than me, I wager, though. But only just a bit."_

Here, Lydia's brows furrowed. He couldn't have been talking about… "Beelzebub? He's _your _dog?" Suddenly, all the rage she had been reserving for her sweet boy's hypothetical previous owner twisted into something closer to dread. "Oh, Betelgeuse," she gasped painfully, forgetting herself. That was twice now. "_Please tell me_ you didn't clip that sweet puppy's ears and tail." She sounded on the verge of tears. Lydia knew he was not a nice guy. She could stomach the thought of him harming people, though she would not allow it if it was in her power to stop him. People were trash. The idea that he played a hand in the cruel torture of an innocent animal, however, was not something she was sure she could forgive. _"Please tell me."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

As the girl's anger dissipates under his touch, the ghoul pulls her gently against him, and his expression as he looks downwards crumples in abject confusion. Girls weren't supposed to call guys? _Oooooh. That explains a LOT of his misfortunes with women, among other things. _

"Desperate? Needy?" he grunts as if insulted by the very idea and _exceptionally tempted to just lean down ever so slightly to get another kiss as she cranes to look upwards at him,_ "Who cares? These girls and your teacher have been puttin' a lot of funny ideas about _what women are supposed to like_ into that pretty little head of yers. I think you oughtta just start likin' what you like. And if seein' me is what you like, then we'll do that." And that's that. Simple! Right? Women are always making things so complicated.

At the latter though, he has to admit defeat. Picking at the moss around his face tickles, and it thrills him just a little. No one's done _that _before.

"Uh," he mumbles, distracted, "_Proverbial_ cold showers, babes." She's right though. He's not into showers. Or being clean. What's the point? If he's clean, the bugs won't stick around, and no more late night snacks. Or noon time snacks. Or morning snacks. _Tragedy_. Plus, he has a _natural musk_ that's attractive to the opposite sex, or so he's firmly decided long ago.

Idly, he wishes she would keep touching his face. That'd be nice. He comes back around from his little woozy daydream in the middle of her asking about the dog. Clip his ears and tail? He blinks once or twice, registering what she's asking.

"Oh. _Oh_. No, babes," he says, insulted, "He's from the ….. the fighting pits. They do that to 'em when they're puppies. Big black market gambling thing in the Neitherworld. They figure 'cause they weren't ever alive they can't really hurt 'em. I don't like it, so I'll steal 'em occasionally." What he doesn't add is that he then he bets on the other dog, who wins by default and then never has to fight. It's like being Robin Hood, except he keeps the money. "Dog came from there. He was too stupid to go anywhere else."

He pauses, and then adds, "Lyds, I'm a monster, but I'm not _that kinda monster_. I don't take jobs with kids n' pets. I won't do it, babes. Too complicated." And by complicated, he means it _legitimately bothers him_ to frighten those two categories. He's done it before but he derives no pleasure from it. He prefers instead to use them as bargaining chips without an actual intent to hurt them at all. It's sometimes really fun for the kids, in fact. Not so much for the parents.

"But I'm getting the idea you've met him, which means he didn't follow my instructions very well. He hasn't been misbehaving has he?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

_"Stupid?"_ Lydia scoffed in disbelief, pulling back from him. The man needed to have more faith in his own dog. "I don't know what you're talking about. That's the smartest fucking dog I've ever met in my entire life. Come on, I'll show you. My father and Delia are still passed out and will be for a while, so don't worry about them."

With that, Lydia departed from the room, not waiting for him to follow. She knew he would. The button for the automated coffee maker was pressed as they passed through the kitchen, Lydia having already set it up to go the previous night. Her parents could not be trusted with such a responsibility- or any responsibility, really. Then, she grabbed a bag of beefy cheesy dog treats- a purchase neither parent approved of but were unable to deny. She hugged her arms around herself upon stepping out onto the front porch, clearly feeling the morning chill. Bub, sitting stoically at the end of the driveway as he had all night, every night since she brought him home, perked up immediately upon sighting her. He didn't move until she gave the signal, a sharp whistle. At the sound of it, he transformed into a giant bundle of amorous muscle, bounding toward her several meters at a time, tongue flapping in the wind. Just as it looked like he was about to tackle her to the ground and attack her with kisses, Lydia issued her first command.

"Heel," she spoke calmly, without raising her voice or giving a hand signal. Instantly, Bubby became all business, every muscle taut in concentration, mouth closed. "Sit." He did. Lydia dawdled down the porch steps leisurely. A handful of treats were laid on the ground about a foot in front of him. He didn't even look at them, black eyes locked on his mistress. "Lay down." A cloud of dust issued from the ground as he hit it hard, eager to please. "All the way." Almost bashfully, his jaw hit the ground. Still, he didn't look at the treats. "Roll over." Lydia gave the next order quickly, stopping him on his back on the second roll. "Play dead." Dramatically, he shut his eyes, lolled his tongue, and ceased all movement. "Up." Swiftly and obediently, he was back to a sitting position. Lydia sat on the wet grass in front of him. The treats remained in a pile between them. "Left paw," she held out a hand and, of course, he gave her the proper paw. "Right paw." More of the same.

Lydia paused for ten extra seconds, just to demonstrate his immense patience. _"Now." _He attacked, gobbling up all the treats with one lick before dropping his head down into her lap and rolling around on the ground like a worm. "Yes, who's my good puppy? Who's a smart boy? _You!_ Vicious little baby, so precious. Look at that belly!" She continued on this fashion for a while, seemingly forgetting the presence of her husband on the porch behind her.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

"Nawh," Betelgeuse argued, following Lydia out of the room, as she attempts to assert his dog's intelligence, "Dumb as a rock. A sack of rocks." By his tone, it isn't clear if he means it, but he seems to be arguing very lightheartedly.

As he meanders through the strangely familiar house, he mightly considers leaving gifts in various places for the Deetz's to find. That'd be highly entertaining. He runs a finger against the coffee pot lightly as they pass by it, imbuing it with an… interesting flavor indeed. _Fucking drink that right up, Charles, ya putz._

As they reach the front porch with the treats, he can see the dog off in the distance. But Lydia whistles and Bub comes predictably bounding towards them. The ghoul sniffed. He could already see all over the stupid animal's face that he was utterly smitten with his wife. That was an impressive first trick. Usually, the mutt is reluctant to wait for damn near anything.

"Lyds he's gonna knock you ass over teakettle," remarks the ghost with a chuckle as Bub comes thundering down the lane. "He's pickin' up speed."

And surely, he was, but as she gently and firmly issues the command the dog immediately obeys. Betelgeuse lights a cigarette, looking sour as ever as the dog easily works through a _veritable series _of commands, one after the other. Eventually, he throws up his arms mid "left-paw" and growls, "Where were _you _when _I _was tryin' to teach you all that stuff, you idiot dog?" he huffs, and huffs all the more as the giant animal wriggles all over his back with his big fat head in Lydia's lap. "Fuckin' ….traitor."

Internally though, he's _mightily pleased_ and exceptionally impressed, he just has a reputation to keep – the bond between Bub and Lydia will indeed ensure she's safe if he has to go away again. Which, if his libido continues on like it is, he will absolutely need to.

The ghost waves a hand dismissively, "He's yours if you want him. You're the only one who can do anything with 'im, clearly. Mangy mutt. I don't think you can get rid of 'im now if you wanted to. We're kind of similar like that," he leers, and then adds, leering harder as she coos and tummy rubs the wriggling animal, "Lyds, if I'da known you were such a dog lover I'da changed m'self into one. When do I get belly rubs?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

"I'm a cat person," Lydia corrected, not even deigning to acknowledge his lewd suggestion. The only indication she had even heard it was a smartly arched eyebrow. _Really?_ He could flirt better than that. "I don't know anything about dogs. I rented a book from the library. It took him _two days_ to learn all that stuff. Can't get him to stop growling at other people though," she admitted dismally, slowing her frenzied scratches into long, raking strokes in his glossy coat.

Bub reacted accordingly to the change in pace, calming some and cuddling himself further against her. He would have been curled up like an infant in her lap if only he fit. He settled for shoving his massive head against her breasts and licking the underside of her chin. _A show of submission_, Lydia knew from her book. Precious baby.

"Delia won't let him inside. She's too chicken. _Like a sweet boy like you would ever hurt anyone, no you couldn't-_ Wait–" Something Betelgeuse said earlier finally sunk in. "If he was raised in the Neitherworld, then he should be… _dead_, right?"

The beast's breath was hot on her neck, pounding heartbeat pulsing beneath her sweetly petting hands. Lydia savored the warmth in contrast to the morning draft and cuddled him close once more before gently detaching, rising to her feet, and wiping bits of grass from her backside.

"Not now, Bubby," she dismissed him at the bottom step with a sympathetic frown and pat. "_Later_. After the wicked stepmother flies away on her broom." Lydia regretted her quip almost instantly. That was an insult to witches.

Politely, she held the door open for her husband on her way back inside before retrieving a large, black, well-used mug from the cupboard. The lip had two prominent cat ears shaped out of the ceramic, and the handle was comprised of a tail. After heaping a healthy dose of cream and sugar to the bottom, she filled it with the tainted liquid gold. The deep, familiar scent brought color to her cheeks and an infinitesimal, blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

Jealousy tinged Betelgeuse's chest. Dumb dog. Look at him, all snuggled up under those beautiful breasts, in her lap, _allowed to lick her anywhere._ And enthusiastically! He grumbles under his breath about it, flicking ash from his cigarette. He does find it charming that Lydia's made such good friends with his errand boy, however, and so he drawls out slowly, "Mmm, looks to me that you're a dog person now, Lyds."

He grinned, sly and malicious at the idea of Delia disliking this pooch. Of course she would. Woman can barely handle the idea of keeping her life together out here in Nowheresville. As Lydia asks him about the dog, though, his attention returns from thoughts of Bub shaking egregious amounts of mud all over Delia and her bedroom after a romp in the rain.

"Nah," affirms the ghost. "Well. Sort of. But no. But yes? He's a Grim, Lyds," Betelgeuse replies, matter-of-factly, "They ride the line between the worlds. Traditionally, they're harbingers of death, but I'm fairly sure you're well read enough t'know enuff about 'em," he pauses and gestures to Bub, "Ain't what he really looks like. He's about….mm. Four times larger in the Neitherworld. 'S why I ain't havin' him crawl into my bed, babes. I won't do it."

The girl finally releases the hound and stands, wiping grass from her rear. Betelgeuse chuckled something about _"yer ass is grass and I'm gonna mow it"_ cheesily as they headed back into the house. He hoped Delia would leave soon as she promised Bub, then he could have freedom inside the house for a while. Not that he didn't like Lydia's bedroom, but he was already feeling the sensation of being _constrained _– and he wasn't enjoying it. It was sweet of Lydia to hold the door for him. Another invite, of sorts, to stick around and though he doesn't mention it, it's inwardly and perhaps unconsciously appreciated.

He was about to ask her something else when he noticed where she was getting her coffee from. Disinterested eyes suddenly lit up with urgency, and before she could drink it, he had to give her a quick distraction.

"Uh uhhhhh uh- hey Lyds, do you think I'd look fat in one of your dresses?"

It was the only thing he could think of to get her attention immediately, other than _what would you have done if I had actually killed your fat slob of a father_. He wanted to get her attention, not make her angry with him again. As she hesitates on drinking to answer, he winks swiftly and turns her coffee back to just the plain old stuff.

"…..I think I'm more of an A-Line though…." the coffee pot follows. He'll have to come up with something else for Chuckie. This is going to be interestingly tricky. _Grumble!_

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

The discovery that Bubby wasn't only abnormal- something Lydia had gathered on her own quite swiftly- but an honest to goodness _Grim _was somewhat anticlimactic. After seeing so many fantastic, impossible things in the Neitherworld, this was easy to accept.

_"Hey Lyds, do you think I'd look fat in one of your dresses?"_

What the fuck kind of a question was that?! Lydia glared suspiciously over the rim of her steaming mug. "You keep your _filthy hands_ off my clothes." He would bust them at the seams if he even tried. Satisfied with her warning, she took a deep sip of sweet, caffeinated, hazelnut elixer before making to return to her bedroom.

"Delia and my father are going to Hartford today for some important investor's meeting or whatever. She's only going so she can shop at some 'real' department stores- that, and she likes to insert herself so she can feel important. _Anyway_," Lydia began again with a hint of exasperation, once more holding a door open and shutting it behind him with all the manners of a proper gentleman, "this means that the house is mine today- and by extension, yours. They should be gone most of the day so we can do whatever we want."

Of course, Lydia almost always did whatever she wanted anyway, but Betelgeuse's presence demanded a revision of decorum. She curled up in her reading chair, both palms wrapped around the warm mug, and tilted her head to the side coquettishly while examining the way he moved about her room. "I didn't really have any plans when I called you," she admitted, dipping her gaze to the creamy concoction she'd been sipping from. "I was mad. It was an emotional reaction. But-" She got more comfortable, leaning to the side and letting her legs swing over the armrest. Flimsy black fabric gathered on the way, revealing her legs almost up to the knee.

"You're here now. What do you want to do? You're the boss. I am at your disposal."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

Phew. Crisis averted – and the question just miffed her. He looked vaguely at his hands. Yeah, they were definitely filthy. Pleased, he stubbed his cigarette on one of the occasional tables as he meandered with Lydia back upstairs to her bedroom.

He listens to her explain that her parents will be leaving, and he grins just a little from behind her. He kicks off the floor idly and floats into her room as she holds the door open, settling languidly into the air on his back, legs crossed as if he were on some sort of couch. She settles in to her chair, and he vaguely hangs about, looking at her upside-down at one point and smiling rottenly.

"_Whatever we want, _huh?" his mind was suddenly crowded again with bad ideas, and it was written all over his face. No disguising that! _Booby trap the entire house_ was on the tip of his tongue, but he knew Lydia wouldn't agree to it. _Striptease _was second, and that was out, "Could make out," he finally settles on, that grit in his voice mightily suggestive, teasing. "But we all know how distracting that is."

As she adjusts and swings her legs up on the arm of her chair, that dress hiking up as it does, it captures his attention for a good solid few seconds. He comes back from his little oogle with Lydia offering the titillatingly tempting, _"—you're the boss, I'm at your disposal."_

"Well, Lyds," he mumbles, "I'm a good idea guy. I have a _lot of ideas_ of what to do with a free afternoon. But my sort of fun and your sort of fun are two very different things," he winks, "But, I think I can meet in th' middle someplace. One: we could go on a tour of the Neitherworld, two: we could go visit Barb n' Adam in the waiting room. I'm sure they'd love t'see you." Oh, how _selfless_.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

Lydia was definitely amenable to making out some more, but he had a point. She wasn't really interested in pushing the envelope on their relationship- _even thinking the word made her giddy-_ that far today. Of course, the way things were going, she wouldn't be surprised if her opinion were to rapidly change course.

"Have you lost your mind?!" The casual way he suggested visiting Adam and Barbara in the waiting room suggested that he was serious. "Nevermind. Don't answer that, I forgot who I was talking to. They would never, _ever _condone-" Lydia struggled for the right word, eventually settling on gesturing at the air between them, "- _this_. I'd be essentially disowned. They would never understand why I even called you back to begin with." Lydia wasn't sure if Betelgeuse even understood or cared, but she wasn't about to spell it out for him. "Do you know how _taboo _the subject of that night is in this house? My father turns green anytime anyone says the word 'wedding.' Delia doesn't wear red anymore. If the conversation even looks like it might be turning that way, they all shut up and change the subject. I _can't- _couldn't talk about you or that to anyone."

It was no wonder her regret over the occasion was allowed to fester until it came to a head. Lydia was never allowed to process the event normally; discuss, share her anxiety, receive others opinions. Any thought that came close to Betelgeuse and her almost-wedding was forced to remain locked up tight in her ravaged, guilt-prone mind.

"That being said," she finished, settling back comfortably after her impassioned counter-argument, "I would _love _to see the Neitherworld today. Let me finish my coffee and I'll get ready. Can we bring Bubby? I want to see what he really looks like."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

"Yeah well," Betelgeuse drawls, floating down onto her bed, unperturbed at her impassioned refusal to visit Barb and Adam and how he had traumatized all of them, "_They_ didn't marry you,_ I did_."

He picks at his fingers, "Just 'cause they have issues with the deal we made doesn't mean they get to decide how you get to feel about it. I owe Barb at least one good scream Lyds, she _fed me to a fuckin' sandworm_."

He doesn't push it, though, because Delia wasn't too traumatized that she didn't sculpt his beautiful snake-like visage. He hasn't seen that sculpture yet – but he would consider it a perfect _homage _to his efforts in scaring the living daylights out of them.

"I think you dragged me back here not just for the deal but 'cause you think I'm cute," he adds, just to be obnoxious, and then he grins, "Sure, I can take you around t'day. And yeah, _Beelzebub _can come with us. Stop givin' him cute nicknames, it's making my stomach green. Y'gonna make him all _soft_."

He knows she's not going to ever acquiesce to the latter. He mostly just seems to enjoy jabbing at her just enough, like old friends do when they talk.

"We can go to the Shocking Mall, oooor the Ice Scream shoppe, or we could go visit the main drag, there's the Beguiling Swamp and Casino…."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

Lydia nursed the last inch of her coffee away as he offered her a different viewpoint of the situation. He was absolutely right. They _didn't _get to decide how she felt. She just wished it were possible to discuss her feelings at all.

"One good scream is fair," she agreed before downing the last of her coffee and departing for the bathroom to perform her morning ritual; brush teeth, wash face, apply moisturizer, etc. "Just no emotional or physical trauma, please. I still don't see why any of them need to find out about us _at all_. I don't need their approval… but I don't want their judgment either."

Judgment is exactly what Lydia would get. She could already hear the questions, the accusations. _How could you? Why would you do this? Are you stupid? He could kill us all! He could kill YOU!_ That last thought coincided with his expectantly cocky theory about why she called him back. Indulging her dark sense of humor, Lydia shelved her trepidation over revealing something this personal and decided that _yes, she would spell things out for him._

"I called you back because I thought you would kill me on the spot," Lydia corrected bluntly, a smirk in her voice as she shut the closet door behind her. Maybe that would knock his ego down a peg. "I was so shocked when you didn't that I was ready to agree to whatever you wanted."

She settled on a mid-waist, ankle-length black skirt and a lightweight cropped sweater- _also black, of course-_ that would expose a scant amount of pale midriff whenever she raised her arms. After settling at her vanity to do her makeup, she listened as he rattled off all the different locations they could visit.

"Oh, _all of them_. I want to see it all-_ and no, I will not, he is a precious baby and will be treated as such."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

_"One good scream is fair."_

Good. Gooooood good. Well, who gets to decide what a "good" scream is? He might have to try to make her scream A LOT before finding the one. He scowls as she mentions emotional trauma. That's something he simply can't promise – he can't tell who's going to get PTSD from his scares. Although, he would assume _most of them_. He's a bio-exorcist, not a birthday clown.

He lurks around on her bed watching her hover in her bathroom's mirror, doing _whatever it is_ women do while they're "putting their face on". He sniffs, picking at his nails and frowning. "Who cares about their opinions anyway? We have a beautiful relationship. I'm a mature, workin' man babes. And you're in the prime of your womanhood. They should be _happy_. And they should be happy because you're happy, m' little black rose."

They would be so unhappy. So very, intensely, deliciously unhappy and that makes the evil thing in Betelgeuse's chest purr.

He startles vaguely at her strange joke, suddenly staring at her intently as she swirled through her closet. And then he _laughs_.

"What and waste that fresh, lovely little body of yers? You're good, Lyds. That's funny. I never wanned t'kill you, you were all _'oh no a snake!' 'Oh no a bridegroom!' –_ you were scared of my very nature. I kill two people by plowing them through your ceiling and you think I'm going to murder everyone in this house," he chuckles as if finding this very hilarious before he cuts off the laughter suddenly._ "And I just might if they cross me again."_

He watches as she dresses. He's always watching, his concentration on Lydia rarely falters for something else – and that's unusual for the spasmodic ghost who can rarely decide on anything or concentrate on anything for long. He likes the way she moves, the way clothes easily fall onto her slim frame, the way she sits with a gentle curve to her back. He's always finding something new, something to fuel his frustrated lust later.

"A'aight, sure, precious…whatever." he agrees, putting his GUIDE cap on again, in a breath he's dressed in the duster jacket and touring outfit of yore. He liked this ensemble. It was close to some of the more original outfits of his day. Plus it showed off his cute ankles. "We'll go wherever ya like, I'll show you everything." He pauses, and then smiles, evilly, behind her back as a slimy little plan forms in his head, "I'll even show you some of my _favorite places_."

It was not his favorite place that he was going to show her. Far from it, but why wait on torturing Adam and Barb? He's never been a patient sort of guy, and he has no reason to start now.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

_"Who cares about their opinions anyway? We have a beautiful relationship. I'm a mature, workin' man babes. And you're in the prime of your womanhood. They should be happy. And they should be happy because you're happy, m' little black rose."_

His creative terms of endearment always made her feel warm and mushy inside, usually softening the blow of whatever ghastly thing he had said right before them. This time was no different. "_Prime?_ I'm a flat-chested midget. I am not done yet. My boobs need to get bigger. I can't stay this short forever, it's not fair. I need at least… _six _more inches. Then I won't have to use a stepping stool for everything."

A thick mass of ebony waves was gathered on top of her head into a high ponytail, several tufts left down to hang in front of her ears and frame her face. Then, she pulled a simple black choker around the thin column of her neck. This was one of the skinnier ones so that if her husband decided he wanted to leave more marks on her, there wouldn't be anything in his way. A small, circular, black gemstone dangled down from the center and the studs she proceeded to decorate her lobes with- _they were pierced thrice-_ matched spectacularly. Subtle, yet dramatic strokes of coal along her lashes gave her cat's eyes, larger and more expressive than ever. Rather than her usual black, Lydia decided to coat her lips with a deep, bloody red today. Just to change things up.

Satisfied with her appearance, she presented herself to him, ready to abandon the realm of the living in favor of more interesting adventures. The sight of his guide hat made her lips curl into a wide grin that showed off her teeth- white, polished, smelling of wintergreen.

"That's cute, Beej." Where did that nickname come from? She couldn't remember ever having called him that before. Oh well. He didn't seem phased by it, so it was probably okay. She reached up, flicking the lip of his hat just enough. "I'm ready if you are."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

"Babes," the ghost says, seriously, sitting up very straight, "You're the sexiest girl I've ever met, hands down, not lyin'. I want to _bang you on every surface of your parent's house_. And not just for revenge purposes, but a little for revenge purposes. You have _no _idea the things I wanna do to your hot bod. Your tits are gorgeous, I've been staring at 'em all day n' whenever I've seen you so I should know," he says, plainly informative. "Also," he grates, eyebrows waggling, his voice low and lusty, "I've got six inches I can give ya. You won't even need a step-stool to reach 'em."

She _did _walk into that last one. As she finally finishes fixing herself, he slings his legs off the edge of her bed. And then she does that slow motion sort of reveal thing…or maybe she just does in his mind… somewhere in his imagination 'Bad Medicine' starts playing. _Every time_. She does this effortlessly _every time_ in hopes he'll drop dead again just from looking at her, it isn't fair. The ghoul makes a noise low in his throat that's half way between a whimper and a grumble, on the edge of a growl but not quite. It turns into a hiss and he clacks his teeth together nastily.

"I shouldn't letcha go outta the house lookin' like that," he says, fixated, "none 'of 'em out there deserve to see you lookin' so fuckin' fine." And that was true. Betelgeuse had a jealousy streak a mile wide. His pretend of not caring was only a thinly veiled façade.

Piercings. She had three on either ear, which meant she could handle, and was welcoming towards, a certain threshold of pain. The concept made him nearly dig his fingernails into his palms. He slid towards her just a little as she approached as if drawn to her, and he grinned back at her as she flicked the brim of his faded grey hat. She likes it, so that makes him doubly pleased indeed. He could sense that today was going to go _exceedingly well_ for him. Instead of replying, he relinquishes control for _just a moment_ to kiss her very gently on those blood hued lips, and while her eyes flicker shut the transition happens. In a whooshing rush, he transports them both right into the Neitherworld.

Once the ghost pulls his head back, it's clear they're on some sort of popular main street. There are dead people _everywhere_, some revealing the manner in which they departed by how they look, along with strange monsters and beings all muddled together. They brush past the couple as they go about their business, strangely hued women with shopping bags laugh as they progress along the street. Some recognize the ghost with the girl and they hurry along faster, whispering and shuddering to each other.

"Well Lyds, this is one of the better neighborhoods here. Lots of stores. Ain't the Shockin' Mall but its sorta close. I myself live in a place called Wormwood, but this here is Uptown. 'S called that 'cause it's literally _up _from anywhere else. S' got places like Abrah's Cadavers, Insannah Tea House, Bloodbath n' Beyond, Al Ligori's bookshop, The Less is Mortar n' et cetera."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

Lydia had absolutely nothing to say to his explicit description of how very badly he wanted to fuck her. It wasn't new information, but it still managed to throw her for a loop whenever he voiced it. This time was no different. She blushed deeply, and sputtered out something that sounded like_ "thank you"_ because she was polite in all things and he _had _just complimented her. Kind of. In his own lewd way. The frank honesty was somewhat charming.

Before approaching him, she'd draped her camera over her neck, unwilling to forget it this time. When he bent down for a kiss- _about time-_ she accepted it easily, tilting up to meet him. When her eyes fluttered back open, she instantly realized what had happened. The abrupt change in scenery was jarring and instantaneous. It knocked her off balance and she clung to him for purchase, clutching the material of his trenchcoat. Her stomach bottomed out, vertigo settled in, and for a moment she feared she might lose her coffee all over his shoes.

"Woah," she breathed, closing her eyes and taking several deep breaths to center herself. The dizziness passed quickly. As she began to take everything in, he was already rattling off the names of different stores.

"_S' got places like Abrah's Cadavers, Insannah Tea House, Bloodbath n' Beyond, Al Ligori's bookshop, The Less is Mortar n' et cetera."_

Her camera was pressed to her face and she was aiming it in every direction, not willing to miss anything. She wandered, using her lens as eyes, vaguely aware of him still speaking behind her. The edge of the road fell off into nothing and she stood at the threshold, fearless of the certain doom that would meet her should she fall- instead aiming her camera at it. She caught every polaroid as they fluttered from her camera, tucking them into a black bag slung across her shoulder. They wouldn't be examined until much later when she was back in the realm of the living and needed a reminder that this had _actually happened, no Lydia, you're not crazy. Well, maybe a little. _

"I don't know where to start," she huffed in excitement, wild eyes scanning the storefronts, smiling and nodding politely at every ghoul or monster that shuffled passed them. "There's so much!" While they all piqued her interest, the bookshop and teahouse were definitely at the top of her list, but she really wasn't interested in letting Betelgeuse spend that kind of money on her. A meal was one thing. Gifts were another. "Take me somewhere _you _like," she decided finally, turning fully to face him. "Anywhere, I don't care what it is. You could take me to a bar. Do you _have _bars? Can you _get _drunk? Is that a thing? I mean, you smoke, so…"

She trailed off, seemingly realizing that she was getting very easily worked up over things that were commonplace to him. It was time to pull together and behave like the "prime woman" he believed her to be and not the awkward teenager she knew she truly was.

"It doesn't matter where we go. I'll be happy with whatever you show me."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

As she clings to him for balance once they transport, the ghoul smiles. He likes it. He also seems to like her enthusiasm, waiting patiently as she snaps every picture she can with her Polaroid. Juno would be having _frothing conniptions_ if she knew he had permitted her to do so, and that only makes him happier. As she whirls on him and peppers him with questions, he quirks one brow and looks amused.

"Babes we have every format of bar you could want. Oxygen bars to get that _alive _sensation, liquor bars, cocaine bars, heroin bars, sex bars, fetish bars, and some of 'em are a combination of all those things and some other donkey-show type stuff. And sure, yeah I can get _blackout _drunk. Doesn't do anything to ya. You don't even wake up with a hangover. After about the twentieth, fiftieth time ya almost use it to get some sleep, if you needed _that_, which you don't. But it sure passes the time."

She seems awfully eager for him to bring her to the seedier sections of the Neitherworld. He'd be offended that she assumed that's where he hung out if it weren't _absolutely true_. She's perceptive, he'll give her that!

"Oh, one more thing," he snaps his fingers and an enormous, horrific looking monstrous canine rounds a corner. Some Neither denizens worriedly make room for the pitch black thing. It seems to drool some sort of noxious glowing green liquid, steam hissing out the corners of its mouth. And it has teeth. Oh so many teeth, in all the wrong looking places, with all the wrong looking sizes. Its claws look more like a bear's, and the thing is larger than the size of a lion, easily dwarfing half the people on the street. It ambles easily towards the ghoul and Lydia.

"Lyds, you remember _Bubby_." The dog lets go a noise that is plainly horrific, something between a human scream and a rattling howl, like someone being killed in a windstorm. It blinks milky white eyes and picks up the pace as it sees Lydia, almost bounding to her in fact – it would be absolutely terrifying to anyone else and some bystanders look vaguely concerned indeed. But upon reaching her, the enormous creature shoves his head firmly but gently against her belly. It scream-whines low in its throat, rattling, panting. It has _so much_ deep fur.

"And you know, babes, I've hung out a lot of places. Dens of ill repute. Dante's sister location, cocaine bars, I've tried it all. Just to get that _joy de vivre_. But my favorite place, girl, is bein' anywhere with you as it turns out. I know we haven't been doin' this long, but it's true. Comin' from a dead guy who's been places," he pauses, "I can't take you to any of my regular spots with you lookin' like that, either, ain't no place for a beautiful girl. My girl. I ain't doin' it. I am _not _a sharin' man, babes, I'm not. And I hate everyone I know that isn't you. Before you came along, I just hated everybody period."

After the adamant refusal, he adds, "You know where I really want to go, darlin'? I want to show you how property in the Neitherworld is purchased. So maybe we can get our own place together someday huh?"

He _prays _internally that she likes the sound of it. He's only partway serious. He would do that if she liked, but his motivations for the day are fairly revenge based first, fun stuff second.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

_Heroin bars_. Lydia's face fell at this. She was hoping… she'd thought that here there wouldn't be any access to… that it might be possible for her mother to…

Before the sinking disappointment had a chance to fully set in, her sweet puppy was bounding toward her, figuratively chasing the bad feelings away. She thought he was massive before, lurking the woods that surrounded her house like a fabled dire wolf. Apparently, that was his sheep's skin. In truth, he was _gigantic_; easily taller than a wild stallion and thrice as thick. Smoke trailed from his paws as he jumped clear over groups of people to meet them, vicious talons breaking away bits of concrete with each hard landing. In the living realm, his eyes were empty black pits, but here they were luminous, swirling and smoky like two crystal balls. He skidded to a stop before them, seemingly aware that he could inadvertently harm his mistress if he were to love her the way he wanted to. Instead of burning her face off with overly enthusiastic acidic kisses, he reigned himself in and settled for nuzzling his big, wet nose against her belly.

"Bubby puppy," she cooed, throwing her arms around his muzzle in a hug, all thoughts of her mother gone, "look how _handsome _you are!" This excited him so much that he nuzzled harder, accidentally lifting her slight form about a foot off the ground in the process. "Oh!" Immediately, he realized his mistake, lowered his head until she was back on her feet again, and dropped down to the ground, rolling over and showing his belly in apology. A pitiful shrieking whine filled the air. "It's okay, baby," Lydia reassured, using both arms to rake her fingernails across his ribs, digging through his mounds of thick, dark fur. It was so soft she couldn't help but press her cheek into it, nuzzling much the same way he liked to do to her. However, when she found his sweet spot and his leg started to reflexively kick, shaking her bodily, Lydia withdrew her attention. "Okay, okay, that's enough, sweet boy. Lay down." Obediently, he rolled back over to the proper position and laid his jaw flat to the ground, rows of jagged teeth sticking out from his gums.

"Good boy." He huffed and licked the air in her direction to show his gratitude, knub wriggling even as the rest of him stayed loyally still. Lydia turned her attention back to Betelgeuse in time to hear his steadfast refusal to take her to any of his regular haunts. His reasons only made her roll her eyes. "Not _everybody _wants to fuck me, you know. In fact, I'm pretty sure you're the only one." Despite his hopeless machismo, she still found his nearly overbearing possessiveness sweet. It was nice to feel wanted, special, like she was something worth protecting. This feeling was only exacerbated by his next suggestion.

_"…So, maybe we can get our own place together someday, huh?"_

Yes, they were married, he was her husband, she was his wife, and they had obvious sexual chemistry- something that still sent Lydia reeling, made her feel brave. But this was all so _new_. It felt much more like he was her _boyfriend_. Internally, Lydia shuddered at the word and decided never to think it in relation to him ever again. Overwhelmed by his eagerness to fully commit to her in such a way, she had no option but to accept.

"Yeah, sure." Her cheeks darkened, highlighting the red on her lips, and she averted her gaze in a show of sudden shyness. "I'd like that."


	7. The In-Laws

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

Betelgeuse's face is mildly sour as she interacts with Bub. He was supposed to be _terrifying_. But Lydia, of course, never saw a scare in anything or anybody. Except maybe his snake, and that was only once. "Yer gonna make 'em _soft_," he reiterates to no avail.

He finally just gives up being too terribly upset over it and takes her by the shoulders, one arm looping around them affectionately. "We'll go to the property office. I'll just…." he wriggles a finger around, "….take us there real quick, we can see what all they've got. It'll be a quick trip, _promise_."

They take another step forward together and suddenly step off from the sidewalk into a cloud of suddenly swirling paper, which blows around them like a small tornado to reveal that they've transitionally entered into a small cramped office. Behind the desk sits a strange fishlike creature with yellow bulbous eyes and fin-like hands. It moves slowly without blinking, surrounded by great mounds of paper. The office itself is bathed in a greenish eerie light, and everything inside of it seems dreadfully old and musty. The windows that comprised most of the office's walls had collected a good sheen of dust on most of them, though some remained relatively dust-free. It was enclosed on all sides except the pained door, which Betelgeuse slid closed.

"See, this here is the central parcel processing office, Lyds. We made it. If you wanna piece of the Neitherworld, y'gotta come here first. And this here, this is Jim Slake," he indicates the fish, which stares blankly at him.

Eventually, in a low bubbling voice that creeps from its vocal cords as slowly as it moves, the fish replies. "Bbbbuuurrtllejuiiimmccee! Tooooo wwwhhhaaauut dooooo I oooowwwweee tthhhbbllplleeaaaaaasssurre?"

Betelgeuse helpfully maneuvers Lydia right, then left, then back a bit, and then settles her right in front of Jim's desk. "You can see the pictures perfectly from _right in this spot,_ Lyds. Don't move. Jim is going to show us everything he has."

And the fish does so, slowly, painfully slowly, pushing forward a tome of bound photos at Lydia. They aren't new looking, but the fish taps some of them with a fin as he carefully begins to flip through them. In that garbled, bubbly low voice, he begins to entreat her on the finer points of the properties in the photos. Some including graveyards, some including mud ponds, some including swamp views or right on the edges of cliffs and some halfway sunk into the ocean. As Lydia attempted to politely remain interested, Betelgeuse quietly backed up behind her, as if looking over her shoulder.

But he wasn't doing that. No, he was leaning as far back as he could to peer past the windowed wall of the office as if checking on something. He squinted, and then, finding the objects of his interest he zeroed in.

Unbeknownst to Lydia, past this office sat the main office, and past that was _the waiting room_. And inside the waiting room, he could easily see Barbara and Adam Maitland, bored out of their skulls but waiting ever so patiently. He leaned just enough so they could see him, and waved his arm, suddenly back in the black and white striped suit they must _so fondly remember_. It takes a moment, but they see him. Barb almost punches Adam's arm, and flails a finger in his direction. The look on her face alone is beautiful, outrage and shock already plastered on it. Adam has to adjust his glasses but once he does, he stands directly out of his chair, mouth agape. _Beautiful_.

The fish drones on. To make sure her attention is still focused, the ghost leans back in briefly to mention to her, "You know Lyds, I really like that one with the swamp view," he gestures at Jim, "Can we see that one again?"

Lydia is so patient. Trying to be so charming. Jim seems to like her, he's telling her about his spawning grounds up in the Skeletal Highlands and he slowly, painfully slowly, flips back to the swampland property. Betelgeuse leans back again to wave once more at the Maitlands. They're still staring, shocked, and then he points dramatically at the girl in front of him. Their attention shifts and they see Lydia. _They see Lydia_. Barb practically claws into Adam, shaking him roughly, and pointing. Already, they're agitated. So agitated. Adam and Barb march up to Celeste's window and peer past her. The green woman is doing her nails and can't currently be bothered to stop them at the moment it seems.

Now they can see better, good.

He's going to have some fun. As they press in, just far enough to never be able to get to him and his bride, he points again to the girl and immediately makes the finger-in-hole motion to indicate sex. He points to himself with a surprised expression, and then back at Lydia. _Oh yeah, we're doin' it._ Barb looks like she's going to have a heart attack. With a smug smile, the ghoul _immediately _ups the ante, curling his fingers around an invisible phallus and pantomiming something enormous going into his mouth, making the grossest blowjob face he can, eyes rolled into his head, tongue out like a panting dog. He points at Lydia once more and makes an Italian air kiss. _Bellisimo. She sucks my cock like a whore_. His attention returns to Lydia briefly to ensure she's not seeing any of this.

Fortunately, Jim has her attention. He puts a finger to the back of her head and tilts her forward to look at the book far more closely, leaning over her shoulder firmly for a moment and tapping a photo. "See that feature? I fuckin' love those things. It gets the slime right between your toes," and then he leans back up, leaving her bent far over Jim's desk, desperately trying to see the feature the ghoul could possibly mean.

He cranes back to see Barb and Adam's horrified, infuriated faces once more and proceeds to air-hump the bent over girl, air-slapping her ass, smiling the biggest, brightest dirtiest smile he can at the Maitlands. This does it for them. Barb is trying to climb through Celeste's window, Adam is red-faced and shouting. Betelgeuse holds up his hand as if telling them to chill out or to slow down, be reasonable, and they stare at him briefly….only to have him hold up his hand and waggle his fingers. His wedding band catches the light, and he points directly at Lydia once more. _Married her_.

Hell breaks loose outside Jim's office. It's a silent display from within, Jim's office is made of very thick pained glass and Betelgeuse knows it. Five or six workers rush towards the front, Celeste is trying to hold the Maitlands back inside the waiting room, and the ghost seems entirely satisfied. Adam is trying to fight anyone that will catch his fists, Barb is flushed and sobbing, wailing. With a sniff, Betelgeuse adjusts his jacket and performs the _coup de grace_, pulling Lydia back away from Jim's desk to be in full view of the waiting room window, turning her around towards him despite her absolutely confused look, and giving her the most passionate kiss he can at the moment.

"Sorry babes. All this domestic shit has me hot. Maybe we'll think about it for a while, huh? I don't wanna rush you. Did you see any you like?" one eye catches even more chaos in the waiting room. He has very clearly broken the Maitlands, reached inside their hearts and crushed them like paper. "I just wanted you t'see the _possibilities_. Wanna go get some ice cream? I'll let you meet my brother Donny."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

Lydia, as usual, remained oblivious to her husband's ill intentions, choosing instead to see some modicum of virtue in him.

As fascinated as she was by Jim- _he had interesting things to say provided one gave him time to say them-_ and the properties he had to show her, she couldn't help but notice that this was… _boring_. Exceedingly so. The office itself reminded her of the rundown, dilapidated buildings in New York her father used to gut out and make his own; peeling paint, stray roaches, rife with spirits. The similarities were endless.

Nevertheless, the mundane nature of this monotonous task only served to warm her heart to Betelgeuse further. She knew him enough by now to know that he would never have even considered voluntarily sitting through something this dull were it not for her. He was serious. He meant what he was saying. He really, truly, genuinely wanted them to live together one day. Lydia had never done anything so _adult _her entire life, including their heated makeout session. This was positively, wonderfully tedious! It was enough to put her on the verge of bubbliness.

The houses themselves were marvelous. Some were little more than one-room shacks surrounded by filth and detritus. Lydia didn't pay much attention to those, though she knew they were more up Betelgeuse's alley. Others could only be described as castles, shadowy monuments that reminded her of dark medieval tales; vampires, curses, and ill-fated maidens.

"Oh," she gasped in delight on the next page flip, eyes brightening, ignorant to the lewd gestures taking place right under her nose. "I like that one. This is tar beach, right?"

"Thhhhhhaaaaaaaat'sssshhhhhh riiiiiiiiiiiiggghhhhhhht, Miiiiiiiissssshhhhhhhuuuuusssss Juuuuuiiiiiiiiimmmmmccccceeeee," Jim answered excruciatingly slowly, before proceeding to give her a number that might have meant something if she knew anything about Neitherworld currency. That glow in her chest hummed at the title he gave her, sluggishly as it was given. _Mrs. Geuse_. That was the first time she'd heard it aloud from someone else. According to him, that wasn't his last name, but apparently, this wouldn't stop other people from addressing her as such.

The house that drew her attention wasn't a downtrodden hovel or an extravagant palace. It was a beachfront cottage with a decidedly eerie twist. The architecture was Gothic in style; sloping, rounded roofs that came to sharp pinnacles at the top, stained glass windows that depicted macabre scenes, three towers all of varying height that were constructed in such a way that Lydia just _knew _the staircases inside them had to be circular. The room at the top of the highest tower gleamed brightly within the photo, illuminating the elaborately designed windows, and it occurred to her that she was looking at a _lighthouse_.

It was time to turn the page. She was getting too attached. It was much too soon to be doing things like this anyway. Besides, who knew if this place was even still standing? That hurricane was vicious. The cottage was probably long gone by now. Before she could flip to the next page and burn the image of the dream house from her mind, Betelgeuse had bodily turned her around and was kissing her like he _really meant it_. After making a tiny surprised noise into his mouth, she melted, her arms coming up to wrap around his neck. It was long, deep, and full of passion, neither of them really wanting to let go but needing to so she could breathe.

_"Sorry babes. All this domestic shit has me hot. Maybe we'll think about it for a while, huh? I don't wanna rush you. Did you see any you like?"_

"A couple," she answered vaguely, grinning. It wasn't a lie. Her arms stayed wrapped around his neck as their lips unlocked. When he stood up straight, she had to go up on her tiptoes to maintain the embrace.

_"I just wanted you t'see the _possibilities_. Wanna go get some ice cream? I'll let you meet my brother Donny."_

Ice cream for breakfast? Betelgeuse had a brother? There was only one good answer to questions like those.

_"Absolutely," _she breathed, stars in her eyes. Then, she took the initiative to push herself up those last few inches, pull him down to meet her, and plant one on him that demonstrated that while Betelgeuse was an excellent teacher, _Lydia was a quick study._

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

There was no virtue to be had here. No, there was only Betelgeuse, who only knew one thing: and that was how to be a monster. He loved Lydia to pieces, which itself was a tragedy in virtue – she was purely good, and he was the exact opposite. He was disgusting inside and out, and he _reveled _in it. And at the moment, he's gotten his way twofold – the girl is happy, the Maitlands are having an aneurysm on top of a foaming conniption fit, and the ghost was standing on top of the world. _God_, it made him horny as hell, and the kiss he's entangled with Lydia within is only making it worse, so his statement wasn't entirely inaccurate.

As she continues to hang around his neck as he straightens up, he smiles down at her, ever so pleased. He likes it when she has to stretch to get at him – it reminds him of how petite she really is. As she so breathlessly and joyfully agrees to the latter suggestion, looking so eager regarding the deadly _boring _place he had brought her to look at property, there's a tiny, teeny, itty pang of guilt as he meets those sparkling eyes of hers. It's gone in a puff of smoke though as she _pulls him down_ to meet her lips once more, doubly ensuring the Maitlands are getting an eyeful of his affection reciprocated. He thrills, _double coup de grace_ – and he actually gathers her directly up into his arms in a strong sweep, lifting her off the decrepit floor and slowly twirling her around in Jim's office. He does want to live with her, the poor thing. He'll call Jim later about the lighthouse she hovered over. It was still standing, he knew, because the Neitherworld doesn't really work as the girl imagines – his destructive abilities were usually reversed by an entire team of individuals called The Beetle Busters or the Anti-Ghoul Squad. It took them a while to clean up after him, sure, but that's the most frustrating part of the Neitherworld – _nothing ever changes_. It all molders, timelessly but aging slowly and surely, and it creeps behind the real world like a dying but never fully deceased sloth. His powers were most effective in the real world where _nothing _was ever reversed and his actions were permanent and disastrous.

The kiss and subsequent twirl-around transitions them out of Jim's office within another small tornado of paper. After their departure, Jim's glassy eyes watched the panic and disorder continuing outside his office blankly, before bubbling dreamily out to himself, "Wwwwhaaaaabbbthbhtttt aaaa niiiicccceee ccoouububbbbluubbble." If the Maitlands had ever made it to his office, they would have found Jim as calm as ever and upon demanding answers from him he would have asked them plainly, "Wwwwwhhhooooobbb?" as if Betelgeuse and Lydia had never even been in his office at all that day. Jim was a fish. Jim was the best. The ghoul could always count on him to _forget_.

Girl and ghoul found themselves outside the very quaint Uptown Ice Scream Shoppe after dissipating from Jim's office. Betelgeuse lowered Lydia down and gestured towards it pleasantly, keeping one arm wrapped around her shoulders affectionately. The building itself was actually quite bright in comparison to its neighbors, like something from a different era or place altogether. Creamy white paint coated the façade that remained clean amongst all the decay that ate at everything. It was relatively spotless if a little cracked in places, this place was very obviously _maintained_. Two thick stately candy-striped columns framed the doorway, which itself appeared almost dwarfed by them. Cheerful and exceptionally large pained windows bathed the outside with a warm yellow light, and inside were white metal tables and chairs from another time. It didn't seem much busy, but there were a few of the deceased inside, helping themselves to sparkling glasses filled with sugary cold treats.

The ghoul led Lydia inside, asking her about the properties she had seen, but particularly the lighthouse. He was in a position to obtain a free flow of Neitherworld money, and cost was genuinely no object to Betelgeuse anymore, a position he _very much enjoyed _indeed.

A very cheerful, southern twang greeted them upon progressing through the door. In fact, it turned into an _overjoyed _twang as it realized who had entered. Emerging from behind one of the large soda pulls was a slim, spotlessly clean individual. He was tall, with a nose that looked vaguely similar to Betelgeuse's, and blond hair – but everything else was markedly not alike. Handsome on his face, he had straight bright white teeth and he almost looked …. well, _alive_. He had no dark rings under his eyes, no moldering hair. In fact, his hair was very politely styled with gel into a classic men's taper haircut with precision cut sideburns that gently flowed into pale stubble on the sides of his face. He was cleanly shaven on the whole and much younger in appearance than Betelgeuse – somewhere between his mid-twenties and early thirties. His eyes, in contrast too, were a happy grey-blue. He wore a white apron – clearly pressed and almost too clean, along with well fitted red and white striped pants. His arms were slim but muscular, and he had colorful tattoo sleeves down each one, the only thing that contrasted with his otherwise neat-as-a-pin squeaky-clean appearance.

"Mah _big brother!"_ He crowed from behind the counter, dutifully wiping off his hands and hurrying around behind the counter and then out of it, towards them, "And a _beaaaauut-eee-ful lady!"_ He was almost breathlessly happy, it seemed, to see them.

Upon reaching Betelgeuse, he stuck a finger against the nonplussed chest of the ghoul with a bright smile, "Now listen here, mister," he said, in a playful, ever-cheery huff, "You have been _misbehaving _lately around this here Neitherworld and the Mayor him_self_ asked me to tell you to knock it the big hecky off, alright?" he leaned back then, and wiped his brow, "Gosh I'm sorry to tear into y'like that though. Let's forget I said anything, okay?"

Betelgeuse's eyebrows raised slowly. "Okay. _Sure thing_, Donny boy," he grunted, noncommittally.

The much slighter ghost turned to Lydia then, clapping his hands together and looking star-struck, "But what have we here, BJ? Who is _this _beaut-ee-ful companion? He _never brings anyone here_. He says I'm _bad for his image_," Donny air-quoted, then, and rolled his eyes with a very humored smile, "But he _loves his little brother,_ doncha BJ?"

Placing a heavy hand on the much cleaner shoulder of his sibling, with pain his voice that appeared to be ever-long-suffering, Betelgeuse looked seriously at him as if ready to disclose something very truthful. "Donny…. kid," he said, slowly, "You are _absolutely killing_ my boner, man."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

"Beej," Lydia chastized lightly, embarrassed, squeezing his hand to show her displeasure. Having just met his brother, she didn't want him to get the wrong idea about her. Betelgeuse didn't seem like the type to care one way or another, but she would prefer for his family to like her. Donny seemed like a genuinely _nice guy_, a soft-hearted foil to Betelgeuse's darkness. It wouldn't do for him to think she was _that _kind of girl– whatever that meant.

"Hello," she greeted, warm and shy, politely extending her hand for a shake. "I'm Lydia, it's nice to meet you. I'm, uh… well, I guess I'm your sister-in-law." In case her word wasn't enough, she tilted her hand just so, letting him catch a glimpse of the silver band on her ring finger.

_"EEEK! BJ, YOU DIDN'T!"_ Donny suddenly screeched like a girl, ignoring the hand completely to sweep her into a bear hug. Lydia squeaked and tensed, squirming until she was released. Like most people, Donny was taller than her, though not as tall as his brother. "Oh, I'm sorry, hon," he gushed, grabbing up both of her hands and bending his knees slightly so he was more on her level. It appeared both brothers had trouble grasping the concept of personal space. "I just got so excited! I been waitin' for mah big brother here to find a nice lady n' settle down for a long time now. Gosh," he sniffled, genuine moisture gathering at his tear ducts, "I'm just so _happy! Oooooh I've always wanted a sister!"_

Lydia's eyes grew wide. She was carefully leaning back, putting subtle distance between them, deeply uncomfortable with the emotional display- but flattered, nonetheless. Clearly, she would not have to worry about Donny disliking her. "I'm an only child," she offered simply, wisely choosing not to add that she had _never, not once, desired siblings._

"Not anymore, you're not, sis!" Her husband's clean, slim, kept look-alike reassured, nearly driven to excitable tears. He glanced over her shoulder and whatever he saw on Betelgeuse's face must have given him a signal to back off. Like a light switching on and off, he changed. In a split second, his eyes were dry, he was standing behind the counter- all business- salesman's grin plastered across his face, rattling off the names of all the different 'eye screams.' Free of charge, of course, for his newlywed brother and sister-in-law. "We have rotberry sneezecake, cooties n' scream, malted roach crunch, snail slime ripple, death by chocolate-"

"That one!" Lydia pounced on the first safe-sounding option. "I'll have that one, please!"

"Nuh uh uh," Donny denied patronizingly, reaching across the counter to pinch her cheek like she was a toddler who had just said something adorable. "BJ would _absolutely have a fit_ if I letcha have that one, my bloody, breathy, fleshy lil sis!"

His smile was _too _wide. He was _too _happy. Lydia's spine tingled, the animal part of her giving warning that despite his cheery countenance, Donny potentially had a darkness inside of him that rivaled his brother's. It was profoundly unsettling. Lydia liked her evil right out there where she could see it, the way Betelgeuse wore it. Donny kept his hidden beneath layers of sugar, spice, and everything nice.

She flinched away from the touch. "Cooties n' scream, then," she decided, smile gone, wary honey eyes locked on the doppelganger.

"Tripple scoop cooties n' _sssscreeeam _sundae with extra everythin' for my beaut-ee-ful baby sister- _eeek_, just gives you _chills_, doesn't it?!"

It did, but not in the way he meant. After taking Betelgeuse's order, retrieving their respective sundaes, and setting up camp in a corner booth- _far away from Donny, at Lydia's quiet insistence-_ she allowed herself to speak freely.

"He's certainly… enthusiastic," she settled on politely, aiming one last apprehensive glance at the smiling spirit. He was whistling _Tip-Toe Thru' the Tulips_ while wiping down the already pristine counter. Lydia shuddered, aiming her gaze anywhere but him. Dead people wandered past the window in droves, chatting, shopping, _living- _but not.

"I guess the necrophiliacs won in the end," she joked with a smirk before scooping up some whipped scream and cooties with her cherry and plopping it into her mouth. The stem was set nonchalantly off to the side, on top of her napkin. "Jeffrey Dahmer must be having the time of his life- _well, you know what I mean_."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

Lydia was right to be off-put by Donny. Betelgeuse himself was offput by Donny and he was probably the one person inside the Neitherworld who spent any real amount of time with the guy. Despite all of the people who had inserted themselves into his life under the guise of friendships, the ghost was a very lonely figure. He pushed others away and enjoyed doing so, but after a couple hundred years, it ain't bad to have some family….even if they are very dubiously related to you. And, like most siblings, the pair absolutely couldn't stand each other and yet couldn't do without each other either. Donny has buried so many bodies for him. Forged so many documents. And kept so many of his drunkenly professed secrets tight behind his pretty, tidy little lips.

He hadn't been able to tell Donny about Lydia, though. Something deep in his chest had prevented him from doing so over the course of the past few weeks – other than being simply utterly preoccupied. Maybe it was because the ghoul knew Donny's secrets, too.

As Donny swiftly goes about making his wife feel exceptionally uncomfortable, Betelgeuse lets it go on for as long as either one of them can safely stand before giving his brother a stone cold look of _"back off, bud"_ when he knows Donny has pushed it a little too far. His brother, at least, could safely be contained behind the guise of good manners – despite his over-abundant, peculiar, enthusiasm.

He orders himself a roach malt crunch once Donny successfully if annoyingly, dissuades her from the death by chocolate. By the look on Lydia's face, he can immediately see she's picked up on how _peculiar _his sibling truly is behind the sunshiny, happy façade. Smart girl. He squeezes a rough hand on her shoulder reassuringly and Donny happily serves them their ice cream orders. She moves them both to a booth chosen far off from the counter afterward, and Betelgeuse already knows why.

"Babes," he says, snorting, slurping down a large spoonful of roach crunch as they settle in, "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said about my brother in one word. Y'know, I'm not even really sure we're actually related. He just showed up one day at my front door with a stamped piece of paper from The Reconciliatory Office of Relatives & Family claiming to be my sibling. I don't think anyone would ever _choose _to be my brother…someone musta played some kinda trick on 'em."

At her latter commentary, he almost laughed a mouthful of ice-cream up his nose, instead managing to stop it and glurp it back down. "You're one too," he leers at her, matter-of-factly, "Fortunately for you, I ain't no stiff. But I _could _be, babes, if given some persuadin'." His eyes flick, too, to Donny uncomfortably – blink and you'd miss it, but it is distantly too-knowing. He laughs, again, at the Dahmer commentary that follows. "You're dark, babes. I like it." He studies her, then, resting his chin in his hand_. "Death makes angels of us all, and gives us wings where we had shoulder-blades smooth as raven's claws." _He pauses, and burps out, "Huurrph. That's a Doors song."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

"I don't know," Lydia tentatively disagreed with his theory, daring one last shady glance at her deceptively unassuming brother-in-law. "I think he's your brother." The way she said it made it sound like she wished she was wrong. "Maybe only half, but there's something there. He's with you for a reason… and I don't think it was a joke."

_"Death makes angels of us all, and gives us wings where we had shoulder-blades smooth as raven's claws."_

Honey eyes closed while he spoke, savoring the poetry as it came pouring from his mouth like dark, red wine. Once opened again, they were glazed over, taken in by the romance of the moment.

"You're not going to teach me anything about _The Doors_," she began with a warm smile, discomfort eased by his infectious laughter and captivating verse. No one had ever truly appreciated her dark humor before. Even Adam and Barb were often disturbed by it, though they never deigned to say so. Lydia could tell. "I was raised on _The Doors_, mister. You might know things about Jim Morrison that I don't, for obvious reasons, but that's where it ends."

Lydia wanted very badly to argue with his assessment of her sexual profile, but seeing as she was only just learning about this side of herself, she couldn't come up with a valid counter. He might've been right. What did she know? He was the expert here. _"Fortunately for you, I ain't no stiff. But I could be, babes, if given some persuadin'."_

A naughty idea inserted itself at the forefront of her mind. Something wicked flashed across her gaze- her inner Jezebel fighting to make another appearance. She might pay for this later, but the impulse was too strong to ignore.

"I don't think you need a lot of persuading," she determined- audaciously accurate- before licking the last of some melted cream from her spoon, maintaining eye contact, well aware of what she was doing. "But, since you asked _so nicely…_" Not slowly, but not quickly, she dropped her spoon back into the half-eaten sundae and nudged the bowl toward the edge of the table, signifying that she was done. Then, she retrieved the forgotten cherry stem.

"We can't all have _giraffe tongues_ like certain individuals I know." Deliberately, she placed the red, pliable, little twig on her tongue, letting him see. Her cheeks hollowed and her lips puckered while she performed for him, still holding his gaze, confident in her abilities. She knew this trick would pay off for her one day. In under a minute, Lydia had a neat, tight little knot to present for him. She appraised it proudly, holding it pinched between black-painted nails. "But I can still do _some _things."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

"Doors fan? Good choice Lyds. We'll have to see how much you know later." He itched the soft curve of his cheek vaguely. She gets his attention though, quite quickly with the tone of her voice and what she says next. Oh. Oh _really?_

That was it. That was the last straw. As Lydia licks her spoon suggestively and neatly places the cherry stem, tied with a skillful tongue down onto the table, the ghost carefully and silently pushes back his chair. He wipes his mouth on a sleeve, jade eyes burning fire at the poor girl.

"Ice cream over," he grunts, voice low, husky. He grabs Lydia up into his arms as if she weighed nothing, hauling her over a shoulder like a sack of flour. The shoppe itself has cleared out by now, Donny having gone to a room in the back to fetch something perhaps, so Betelgeuse is inclined to much more dramatic action in the face of this challenge. "Yer comin' with me," he growls, in a voice that indicates that's that. He grumbles the whole way out, one of his meaty hands gripping Lydia's ass to keep her in place as he carries her along.

Off he marches to a back door, cheerfully marked 'exit - alley'. He kicks the door open easily with a solid thud from his boots and ambles down two moldering wooden stairs into a small brick alley. Neitherworld vermin of unknown sort scatter from in front of him with small hissing sounds. It's dark, but neon lights from above illuminate the space in sickly greens and purples, some pink light splashing across an enormous metal dumpster that leans against the brick. He carries her to the other side of the dumpster, which hides them both from view of the main street in a dark shadow. The ghoul's eyes glittered.

"Try n' take you on a date n' do everything all above bar," he grumbles heatedly, "fucking behaved myself n' everything—-." He did _not _behave himself _whatsoever_, but Lydia doesn't have to know that. He drops her from his shoulder carefully and easily despite his growling and posturing, maneuvering her body around his easily with his strong hands, veritably panting down her neck as he does so. Lydia finds herself with her back pressed against the sturdy brick, her legs rucked up on either side of the ghoul's hips perversely, his loins pushing deep into her skirt. He pins her like this, his hands supporting her weight by her thighs, which he grabs and gropes lustily, snaking his hands right up the bottom of her pretty clothes.

"Sly lil' minx," he purrs grittily, leaning in, "Let's see how talented that tongue really is…"

He was going to have some fun in this greasy, nasty alley, it seemed and he was done waiting patiently to slake himself. He kissed her, passionately then, and she could feel him shudder with barely contained need, his tongue searching hers. Her lips and mouth were as delicious as ever and all he wanted was to drown himself there, at least for a while. He was going to mark her and this time he was going to be there to _enjoy the results._

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.** _

When Lydia was very, very young- little more than a toddler- she wanted to learn how to cook so that she could make a witch's brew like the characters in her stories made. With the coordination and strategy skills of a small child, this meant she often hurt herself. Be it by playing with knives, touching the burner, or falling from the stepping stool she used to reach the forbidden items. Over and over again her mother would warn her of the dangers, and over and over again Lydia refused to listen.

Apparently, she still hadn't learned her lesson.

There was no ignoring the hand on her ass this time, not like on the beach. There might have been an initial struggle when he first flung her over his shoulder, but she surrendered so quickly it couldn't possibly count. What did she expect, honestly, provoking him like that? Hadn't he warned her? She knew what this was. As they descended into the grime and shadows of the back alley, a spark of fear hit her. The fun kind, the _thrilling _kind. The kind of fear where one didn't know what was going to happen next, rather than being assured of their own certain doom.

He was so _strong_. He handled her like she was made of paper and he didn't care if it ripped or not. She knew now that the derisive words he said to her back on the beach were a ruse, a trick to lower her self-esteem and make her more vulnerable to him. Once again, she couldn't bring herself to feel the rage she knew she should. A different kind of fire was raging, leaving no room for silly things like indignation and hurt feelings. He pressed her into the brick, not even allowing her legs to touch the ground before wrapping them firmly about his hips. Ragged claws and calloused fingertips dug into her thighs, sinfully experienced hands finding the opening to her skirt in the short time it took him to position her to his liking.

He surged against her, pressing something unmistakably big, hard, and familiar between her legs. The hands beneath her skirt were greedy; scratching, squeezing, searching. It didn't take them long to find the cushiony flesh of her ass. She wore a tiny, lacy, black thong today- the sexiest pair of underwear she owned. Precautions had to be taken, after all. It wouldn't do to be caught in a position like this while wearing her silly bat-patterned briefs. Despite the significant size difference between them- _he was so tall, so solid, so bulky-_ they fit together _so easily_.

Again, his hips pushed, sliding her a bit further up the wall and sending waves of hot, aching pleasure that pulsated from her core throughout her entire body, down to her toes and fingers. She slid up, he bent down, and then their lips were locked together again. She tried to keep up, she really did, but he was so _much_. Soft, fleshy, untoned legs tightened around him. Clunky black boots dug into his backside. The only layers between their most private places were a barely-there scrap of lace and the rough fabric of his trousers. It was so good- so _fucking _good- it had to be wrong. She tried to cry out, but her pleas were lost into his mouth, garbled by his unyielding tongue. Finding a sliver of mercy within him, he moved his sloppy attention down her neck, leaving one last sharp bite on her bottom lip before making his descent.

_"Please,"_ she begged, unsure of what she was asking for. "It's- it's too much- I can't-" Again, he sunk his fangs into her, right on the fading pink mark she'd been showing off like a tramp all week. It hurt, and she shrieked, but the pain was so intermingled with euphoria she could hardly tell them apart. "Please!"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.** _

She was wearing a _thong_. It was lace, he could feel it, and it left her bottom as bare as the day she was born. If the flirting wasn't provocative, this _absolutely was_. She knew this might happen to her today, or at least, some part of her _wanted it to_, clearly. It made heat surge through his chest, especially as she practically molds to his body, arching, lifting towards him as he pushes against her. He grunted, almost overwhelmed at how easily and readily she responded to him, thrilling at the idea that she _wanted this as much as he_, her fires burning, stoked to rise so quickly. She was beautiful like this, helpless in his wave of lust, so desirous but so perfectly worsted, too.

At the sensation of Lydia's thick boots digging into his backside, the ghost huffs, unable to stop a groan from escaping his lips and into her mouth, her warm and soft thighs tightening around him. It was enough to make him crazy, and it pushes his thundering arousal up against her even more firmly, the sensation of that tiny, increasingly heated and wet scrap of lace hitting him _quite completely_ now. He can almost feel her plump, juicy labia there, the ridge of his thick cock working rudely up between them, rubbing the fabric of his striped suit against the barely covered excitable flesh. She makes a noise at that, a muffled cry into his lips, and he has to brace himself from the edge, only barely managing to avoid ending their encounter far too soon.

Whatever she considered about herself, she was a natural at this. Everything she did in response to him only made him wilder for her, and he would have had her then and there if it wasn't for being directly next to a battered and leaking Neitherworld dumpster. With any other partner, the ghost would have never stopped his indulgence, finding the disgusting atmosphere of a back alley dumpster fuck _exactly _to his tastes. But with Lydia, it halts him, keeping her from further gross degradation at his hands. This was just as horrible as she could probably safely stand, and he would want her first time to be….well. Not this.

As for now, though, his animalistic lust is being satiated fairly enough, perhaps even better than if he'd indulged. Just the very imagining of dropping his zipper and nudging away that fabric to stretch her wide around his cock and then _not doing it_ was a perfect state of agony. Already, she was breathlessly pleading with him, and he moves to ravish her neck, teeth digging in to previously marked, sensitive places. It elicits such a _good noise_ from her, that shriek, it sings in his ear and she can feel his trapped cock twitch hard against the fabric of her thong in response. The front of his trousers are hopelessly wet by now, having drenched them between her juices and his over-eager responses. He apologetically, slimily licks the bite mark, growling against her skin. He desperately wants to slide his fingers inside of her, but he holds off, instead noting that her sweater has rucked up just enough to see the bottom of those sweet, luscious little breasts of hers. _Little devil._

"Please _what?"_ He murmurs, voice a heavy gravelly rumble, moving from her neck to pull back just enough to push her sweater up a bit further. He exposes her to him, letting the snowy mounds of her breasts free, the cooler breeze through the alley brushing over them. "No bra, and a _thong_, you know what you _want_. _Daddy's werkin' on it,"_ he pants, breathily, "I'm gonna give you every inch of this thick dick deep into that tight little pussy of yours when you're ready, dove. I ain't gonna do it here, but I'm gonna make you scream for me." He grunts before dipping his head down and capturing a sweetly pink nipple into his lips. Lydia can feel the moss of his face and his stubble brush against her, and he noisily slurps at her breast, pulling her up against him to do so. Her skin is soft as velvet his mouth and against his tongue, and the noises it elicits from her are beautiful. He can't stay like this for too much longer, every part of his body screams for release.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V. _**

Her underwear was soaked through. Her breasts were bared and under attack. Anyone could walk by and see them if they _really _looked. Daddy. It was all so filthy and wrong and humiliating and _so, so right_. Lydia was operating on pure instinct, undulating her hips like a seasoned whore, pushing harshly against his damp, clothed cock, meeting him thrust for thrust like they were already fucking. She couldn't remember why she wasn't supposed to be doing this. It seemed such a silly thing to be afraid of. If he had hooked a claw around the front of her crotch, pulled it aside, and sunk her down onto his "thick dick"- _Lydia believed him, no visual proof necessary-_ she would not have objected.

It wasn't as though she was some kind of virgin who deserved rose petals and silk sheets. A disgusting, dumpster-side fuck seemed fitting to her. Nevertheless, he appeared to be in disagreement with this notion. Lydia wasn't sure if she was thankful for that or not yet. He knew what would make the horrible, wonderful ache go away and she wanted him to _give it to her_, no matter what it took.

"Ah!" A sharp cry echoed throughout the alley as he bit down on one of her pebbled nipples, simultaneously pinching its twin between calloused fingertips. The sting was immediately soothed away with lathing strokes of his tongue and sweet, pawing squeezes. Then, he switched, moving vicious, hungry teeth to the other, suckling and nibbling it to a similar state of redness. She was thoroughly marked, now. When she looked in the mirror later that night, she would be able to see everywhere he touched her; dark purple fingerprints and light red scratches- _it was a wonder he hadn't broken skin-_ along her ass and thighs, vivid flowering discolorations leading a trail from her neck down to her previously unblemished breasts. Let her father and Delia ignore _these _like they had the others.

One itty bitty pale hand was tangled in his hair, unwillingly gripping tighter than she would consider polite while the other found its way beneath his jacket and clutched at his back. His furiously grinding hips and her own frenzied grip were the only things keeping her pinned to the brick at this point.

_"Beej,"_ she pleaded again breathily, entire body shaking from the immense pressure it was under. Sweat coated her all over, making her feel as slimy on the outside as she did on the inside. Her arms and legs felt weak, liable to give out any moment and send her crashing to the squalid ground. The logical side of her knew he wouldn't let that happen. Still, she refused to release the rigid muscles, instead working them against him adamantly, following the animal intuition that already knew what to do. "I want- oh, God _please- _I don't know _how-_" He didn't seem concerned with her begging, well invested in feasting on her breasts. _"I need you,"_ she practically sobbed, on the verge of breaking to pieces.

A savage growl built up in his chest, violent enough for Lydia to feel the vibrations over all the other distracting stimulation. He bit down on the flesh that covered her pounding heart, his greedy palms found her ass again, and then he was jerking against her, wrenching her against him, dry fucking her right into the rough wall. Surely, there would be marks on her back to match the other evidence of his abuse. She broke. Every rigid tendon in her body froze and tightened before releasing completely. A new flood of moisture soaked the front of his trousers, absolutely destroying her favorite panties, and _Betelgeuse earned his scream._

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V. _**

_Oh_, the noises he was eliciting from her were beautiful. Her tiny hand tangles in his unruly shock of hair, grabbing for him, pulling him to her, the other snaking into his jacket to properly grab him, like a little rider trying to hang onto an unruly bull. It made him _wild_. She begged, brokenly, for him, for more, the more he knew he _desperately _wanted to give her. It was enough, and with that low hard growl, his teeth sinking into her flesh just enough, he has his way with her as much as he can while retaining what little dignity he could leave her.

It feels almost as close, with the way he dry fucks her, hunched over her petite body like a relentless animal. Each thrust makes her little breasts bounce, he can feel them doing so underneath the pulse of his neck. And oh yes, there's a pulse there, although there hardly needed to be. He works at her, grabbing her against him in a cloud of lust, that hard ridge pushing and straining fiercely against its constraints, threatening nearly to burst them. She felt amazing, so soft, hot, so _alive_, the soaked silken fabric pushed almost flat between her labia. They caress his dick with each thrust, enveloping it in that sweltering heat, and he nudges her clit over and over again with his movements. Eventually, it's all too much for her, her little body overstimulated and thoroughly abused, and she clings to him and _screams _for him. Sonorous, dulcet tones that echo through the alley, her orgasmic outburst is something he could bear to hear for the rest of eternity. He knows instantly it's a noise he could not tire of – her sweet sound of release is unlike he had ever heard before in all his years alive or dead. He can feel her whole body clench around him, pressing him hard against her as she soaks herself and him. It's too much for him then, too, and with a rough, growling, throaty snarl into her chest, he finally comes hard, drenching the front of his own striped suit, cock as hard as ever, twitching with each gush of his release.

In the exhausted, panting moments that follow, he gathers Lydia up into his arms and away from the wall, sinking down onto the grimy alleyway floor into his lap. When he can finally catch his breath, he slowly and softly kisses her bruises, guiding her head onto his shoulder and petting her hair gently, affectionately.

"Babes," he says, hoarsely, clearly shell-shocked, "That was the best I've had in six-hundred years."


	8. The Lion's Den

_Lydia's_**_ P.O.V._**

_"Babes, that was the best I've had in six-hundred years."_

Oh, she wanted to believe that so badly. It sounded so true and honest, more genuine than most of the bullshit that came spewing out of his mouth on a regular basis. Lydia wasn't stupid. He lied and manipulated to get what he want and he got her- exactly where he wanted her; curled up in his lap, thrumming in post-orgasmic bliss, and falling into a pitfall of dangerous emotions from which there was likely no escape. Dependant .

"Don't say that," she whispered, small and exposed, begging with him once more. Little not-quite gasps escaped with each soft brush of his lips across heated, abused tissue. They were cool again and it felt nice . "That's not… Don't say things like that if it's not true."

And it wasn't true. It couldn't be. She knew he fucked his way through that entire whorehouse of thumbelinas, and probably countless other bordellos that she didn't want to know anything about . There was no way a dry romp with a flat-chested midget behind his creepy brother's ice cream parlor could possibly compare. Despite the beautiful lie, she melted into his attention, following his silent cues and giving full, unfettered access to whatever piece of flesh he wanted seconds of.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

"It's true," the ghoul mumbles into Lydia's hair as he leans against her forehead. "I….." he hesitates, and then laughs, his voice shamefully embarrassed , "….I think those other girls were just humorin' me, Lyds."

It's probably the most humble confession Betelgeuse has ever made, and indeed, it was a factual one. He keeps touching her, gently, positively woozy in an afterglow unlike one he's felt before. And yes, for him, a dry hump with his new wife from a marriage of inconvenience into something else in a greasy alley behind a dumpster, right outside his creepy brother's ice cream shop seemed amazingly appropriate for a transformative experience.

His hand slams down next to them both, suddenly, and he devours whatever insect he had nabbed as if it wasn't even a second thought. He licks his dirt covered fingers, and tucks his legs up, easing her against him closer. That was nice. That was nicer than it had any right to be. He could feel her heart against his breast, and he savored that sound of living flesh against him. Suddenly, the alleyway door behind them opened, bathing them both in a pale, but bright light. It makes Betelgeuse squint and curse, raising his arm up over his head to bar the light from his eyes. He huddles Lydia closer as if to shelter her from whoever has intruded on their intimate moment.

"Oh lil' sis," comes the lilting voice from the doorway, shiny, clean black shoes descending the two wooden stairs. They stop on the last one. The voice is clearly Donny, silhouetted in the light. He holds out a hand, and on the end dangles Lydia's camera, which he waves slowly back and forth, "You forgot this, lil' darlin'. Wouldn't wantcha to leave it here."

Had Donny been waiting for them to finish? Had he heard the entire exchange? The answer, horrifically is he likely did.

Betelgeuse curses, pulling Lydia's sweater back down as he hides her against him to do it, hunching over her protectively as he fixes her clothes and tries to fix her hair, but he most likely only makes the latter worse. "Time t'go," he mutters to her, standing them both up. He isn't embarrassed at all but he does seem annoyed . "Get your camera from Donny n' I'll get us outta here. I'll take you to my place."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia didn't need very much encouragement to cling to delusion. If he wanted to boost her self-esteem with pretty lies- use his casual dishonesty for good instead of evil- she would let him. So there she sat snuggled against him for precious few moments, basking in his attention, and let herself fantasize that she was the best he had ever had. It made her feel powerful and beautiful, and she would have sat there cuddling him behind that disgusting dumpster just as fucking long as he wanted were it not for Donny's unsettlingly timed intrusion.

Very quickly, her pride and afterglow were tainted with a curdling wave of horrible shame. God, he probably listened to them. She was mortified. Betelgeuse set her back on wobbly legs, tugged her sweater back into place to preserve her modesty, raked a clawed hand through her mussed, loose ponytail, and then sent her off to collect her camera. Her grimace of protest at the order could not be masked. Why couldn't he do it? Donny was his creepy brother. Nevertheless, Lydia was no chicken and she wasn't about to start clucking like one.

"Thank you," she mumbled with obligatory politeness and retrieved her camera and sling from his outstretched arm without touching him or making eye contact.

"Any time, sis ." Lydia had a sinking suspicion that if she were to look into that oh so familiar- and yet not- face, she would notice even more striking similarities between the brothers. "Gosh, has anyone evah told ya that you got the puuuurtiest voice? I bet you sing like a bird," he hypothesized, leaning far outside the doorframe, clinging to it with both hands. He was taller than her, his silhouette casting a shadow that easily encompassed her in the gritty backstreet. This one felt more threatening than all the others. "Soprano, right? I'm a tenor, mahself… "

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

As Lydia moves to retrieve the camera, Betelgeuse lights a cigarette still on the floor of the alley, but upon hearing Donny speak he turns, slowly. And then, after a quick moment, he stands, swiftly moving to his bride's side. If she had looked at Donny, his appearance definitely would have seemed horrifically familiar indeed. He has his brother's leering face.

With a growl, Betelgeuse has heard enough and moves between them, taking Lydia's hand to reassure her. "If I rip your balls off, Donny, you'll fuckin' hit those high notes real quick ."

Leaning back just enough to hover in his brother's face, Donny's smile turns into a gloating sneer, his cheerful countenance showing cracks. "Oooooh. Promises, promises, big brother dear," he replies snippily, and moves away then, lurking back into the ice cream shop. Breezily, he adds from inside, "Jus' bein' complimentary on the operetta. Thanks fer stoppin' by - I'll send y'all a real nice weddin' gift."

Huffing, Betelgeuse has had enough. Taking a good grip on Lydia's shoulder, he transports them in a wave of glittering dust from the dank alley to the doorway of a very peculiar looking building. It appears to be a place of residence, but all at strange angles and elevations. It almost looks like it's ready to topple off the side of the cliff face it sits on, and a large blinking neon sign reads something about a roadhouse hanging precipitously off the side.

"Home sweet home, Lyds," he gestures, leading her with an arm around her shoulder, opening the overly large and strangely shaped front door. The handles of said door are made from some large pieces of bone which make for easy gripping. "Welcome to the roadhouse."

Upon entering, they are greeted by a very happy skeleton who seems overjoyed to see Lydia again. Betelgeuse frowns, he was hoping Jacque wouldn't be home.

"Miss Lydia!" he says, intoning breathlessly, "Oh it is so good to see you once more—-" he pauses, and finally takes in how she looks. Rumpled, bruised, mud on her dress and ruddy cheeks, her expression inscrutable, the skeleton looks accusingly at Betelgeuse.

"Beetl-el-joo-ce!" he exclaims, eye sockets narrowed in righteous anger . "What have you done to zis marvelous creature?!" he rolls up sleeves he doesn't have and marches closer, holding a bony fist up at the ghoul threateningly. "You tête de noeud , you scoundrel , j'en ai ral le bol! Engarde! I will fight you, t'es rien qu'un petit connard!"

Ah dammit.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia sincerely hoped that Donny never sent them, or her, a gift for anything ever. She huddled under her husband's arm when he came for her, grateful for the salvation. His brother was utterly terrifying when he wanted to be. Leaving someone as unflappable as Lydia in such a shaken, unsettled state was not an easy task.

Never bring me back there again, she wanted to plead but didn't. Donny was Betelgeuse's brother, and therefore important to him, no matter how her husband might posture otherwise. So long as she was only exposed to the bare minimum of what was absolutely necessary of his company, all would well. Thankfully, Betelgeuse seemed equally fed up with his brother's shit and was quick to get them the Hell out of there.

BJ's Roadhouse read a giant, flashing neon sign above the door. It was marvelous! An off-kilter balcony hung from the gaping mouth of a slanted doorway on the second floor and was that… a satellite dish on the roof? It was. Betelgeuse had cable and this was almost hilarious enough to make her forget all about their romp in the alley… until Jacque reminded her.

"No, no," she defended urgently, standing as a petite barrier between the two- similar to how Betelgeuse had guarded her just minutes prior. "It wasn't like that-"

"Hon hon hon!" The skeleton sneered, aware of Lydia's presence but towering over her, maintaining eye contact with Betelgeuse right over her head. "Hiding behind your woman? Sous-merde fils de pute! Perhaps if I were _un petite fille_ you would fight me, hein?"

Lydia did not need to speak French to know that the skeletal gentleman was saying some very ungentlemanly things. In truth, she was more afraid for him than Betelgeuse, though she really didn't like the idea of people running around thinking her husband was beating on her. Not wishing to see his bones scattered across the roadhouse, Lydia swallowed her embarrassment and told the truth.

"They're hickeys!"

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Between his brother and this skeleton, Betelgeuse was starting to form a headache. As the skeleton immediately tears into him, berating him, threatening him, the ghost pinches his nasal bridge. Why was everything so difficult? Why was everyone else just so ….. fuckin' impossible?

He holds up a hand, looking beyond irritated. "Jacque…." He starts, but suddenly Lydia is in front of him, protecting him of all things. Protecting him?! Why on earth—- he didn't deserve to be protected for a second . He just did horrific things to her in a dirty alley behind a creepy sibling's ice cream shop who was definitely watching them, and he glances down at her in utter surprise.

He would smile awfully at her embarrassed admission if he wasn't still so damned annoyed with Jacque. That emotion takes precedent over Lydia's obvious discomfort. The skeleton suddenly turns mortified, hesitating in his attack. "H…..le h… hickeys?"

"Yeah bonehead. I was suckin' on her neck like a fuckin' vampire and those happened. Go back to crumbling to dust in front of the boob tube, wouldja?" The ghoul takes Lydia's hand and grumbles, leading her past the thoroughly bemused skeleton. "Shoulda just put us right in the damn bathroom, but no, no, I wanted you to see my house , where everyone thinks I'm Satan ."

He glares over his shoulder, "Satan doesn't even exist, Jacque."

The skeleton huffs and puffs as they walk away. "Well with some of ze nonsense you have pulled Bee-aa-tel-jooce, you cannot blame me for ze thought that you have harmed zat living girl!" there's a pause and then he adds, as if to make a point, "We just got through cleaning ze blood from ze last stupid stunt you did pull!"

It wasn't wrong. The ghoul was indeed a menace, and Jacque and Ginger have seen their fair share of them go awry, and worse. He walks faster away, pulling Lydia along, flailing an arm in this direction and that direction, growling, "Kitchen, over there, living room you just saw, hallway is where those losers live, view out to the highway, my bedroom is there, and here we finally are at the bathroom."

He ushers her inside of it in a hustle, shutting the door audibly behind them with a THUMP . "Fuck, " he breathes, eyes fluttering closed in annoyance, "Sorry babes. I …. I thought you might want a shower." See? His intentions are good. "Though, I'd understand if you wanna stink like me for a while."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

_Blood._

The skeleton's nonchalant, nagging tone is what really got to her. He said it like it was commonplace. Like he was telling Betelgeuse to wipe his muddy boots off on the welcome mat before stepping foot inside. The damning word stayed with her all the way through his brusque tour of the house, and into the bathroom. She jumped when the door slammed behind them, more from shock than anything else.

He seemed awfully annoyed . Lydia did not want to add herself to the list of people he was annoyed with, but… she couldn't let this go. It would haunt her.

"He said…" She began hesitantly, not acknowledging the offer of a shower, despite how desperately she needed and wanted one. The room was filthy, not in any state for anyone to practice any kind of hygiene. She would walk out of that stall dirtier than she went in. "He said 'blood'- that- that he had to clean up blood . Blood that you left."

Her heart was splintering to pieces before him, but she had to stay collected or he was liable to lose his temper. From the way he was pinching the bridge of his nose, brows furrowed in frustration, she could tell he was near the end of his short rope of patience. What would happen if she said his name three times now? While she was down here with him? Would it even work? Her chest lurched at the idea that she might have to. They had a deal.

"Whose blood?"

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

The look Betelgeuse gives Lydia is a slow, unamused blink. And then his eyes silently roll upwards again. Someone exorcize him this instant. Please.

"Well Lyds," he slowly begins, his tone dropping almost conspiratorially, his brain easily conjuring up the following explanation, "Sometimes…I volunteer at the Neitherworld Home for the Dead and Aged. Agnes' deathday was coming up a couple months ago and she's really, really ancient, so I had to make a huuuuge cake made only from 100% fresh blood, see. Y'gotta buy it in down here. Like in a bucket."

He's in full salesman pitch mode. But, he seems to be trying his best to make it seem as plausible as possible. "See, Lyds, the only thing is that I'm terrible at baking, and well, I spilled the blood all over the kitchen when I was tryin' to pour it into the bowl and it got just everywhere and Jacque called me names and he and Ginger yelled at me and they always think I'm up to no good.

I'm just misunderstood, Lyds. I …have a reputation to keep though, so I told Jacque it was part of a job. As I recall mighta ….made up a really elaborate story that was totally disgusting, actually," he itches the stubble on his chin. "I….I remember it being really really disgusting. So they wouldn't ask me any questions, see."

He smiles, awkwardly. "Nothin' to worry about. Only person I'm drawin' blood from lately is you, babes." Wink!

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

As with all of his other attractive lies- though this one was uglier than she was willing or able to see- Lydia ate it right up.

"Oh," she murmured, drowning out the voice of doubt screaming at her to say his name and put an end to all this before it could really begin. "I'm good at baking," she offered instead, lifting her clouded gaze from the grimy tile. "I can help next time. If you want. So your roommates don't have to… don't get mad at you."

The subject needed to change. Her skin was crawling and she wasn't sure if it was from the sight of roaches creeping up the drain, the feeling of cum drying between her legs, or the insincere quirk of his lips into such a handsome smile.

"I can't use this shower," she informed bashfully, hugging herself. It was rude of her to turn down the kind offer just because his bathroom wasn't up to her standards, but Lydia was only willing to go so far for the sake of manners. "It's too dirty."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

The ghoul, horrible monster that he was, was happy enough to move on. Though she almost caught him with her offer to help. And she believes it, at least….for now. Something twists in his chest. He didn't like that, how easily she simply accepted it, even though it made things decidedly easy . Was it… .guilt? He was undeniably himself, and denying aspects of himself always made him churn – if only Lydia would one day accept him for the piece of filthy garbage he absolutely was. Maybe someday. He didn't like hiding himself from her, but all good demons masquerade under the light.

"Oh," he replies in realization, glancing around, "Y'know, after you've been dead for so long, you uh….tend not to notice these things. Sorry Lyds."

He waves his arms downwards. Suddenly, the filthy bathroom they're currently in seems to melt away all around them like vanilla ice cream to reveal…..Lydia's own bathroom. They seem to be back in her house, just like that. He's getting stronger, and better at transitioning between her world and the Neitherworld, it seems. Or maybe it was always that easy. It's so hard to know. He looks at her with a puzzled expression, head tilting, something in his chest suddenly tight and uncomfortable.

"I'm…..curious, though, babes," he hesitantly asks, "If you don't like stuff bein' dirty, I mean," he looks down at himself, "Uh." He indicates himself, "Why me?" It was a point of honesty, he knew he didn't look like Valentino. He was a rotting corpse with sunken eyes, essentially, mold growing all over his face, crypt dirt forevermore clumping his hair. He was not muscular, and he was much older than she. Normally, he could lie to himself regarding just about anything, but this…seems to be a continuing point with her, this…. Cleanliness thing.

"I can't be the first guy that's….that's shown any interest, firstly. Secondly, I mean, I'm gettin' this wacky idea you actually like me, since we sorta did that thing where you said you were mine and I said you were yours. I mean I've got—" he looks down his shirt, and down his pants as if checking both locations, "I mean, the natural state of things is—-" he tries to explain, "—-I'm a dead guy, Lyds. What's the appeal?"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

"Why you?!" She almost laughed out at the absurdity of the question. The easy transition into her bathroom didn't even inspire a blink of awe. Lydia was acclimating to his tricks very quickly. "Why me? I didn't choose you. I didn't go looking for you. As much as you may like to think it, I didn't call you back to marry you because 'you're cute.'"

She was sitting now at the edge of the tub, unlacing her boots and pulling off socks. She wasn't about to strip down to her skinnies right in front of him, but this was okay.

"You've obviously been doing this for a while. You could've made that deal to anybody." Suddenly, she paused, as if realizing something horrible. "Did you?" Just as quickly, she backtracked, ducking her face out of view and shaking her head. "Nevermind. I don't want to know… I'm not- I know you say that I am, and your friends say that I am, but I'm not-"

There was a ball in her throat that wanted her voice to shake and waver like it did when she was about to cry, but Lydia wouldn't let it. "I'm not pretty," she finally confessed, concentrating very hard on unstringing her bootlaces. "I scare people. They don't like me. Fuck, my own parents can hardly stand to look at me. You know, I didn't cover up that last hickey you left and they didn't say shit . Not one word. I don't think they even noticed. They're all like that," she continued dismally, hunched over, hands paused. "It's easier to pretend I'm not even there. Everybody just wants me to go away."

After taking a deep breath that served to chase away any potential tears, she straightened and removed her ponytail, letting her mess of raven hair down to obscure her face- as well as the marks he'd left behind. Finally, she found the bravery necessary to meet his eyes again.

"Except dead people. So here's the deal. I'll tell you why I like a gross dead guy when you can tell me why you like a flat-chested midget."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

It was the ghost's turn to laugh, and he did, loudly.

"I told you, babes," he leans against the wall, arms folded, looking vastly amused – her answers seem to have pleased him. "You ain't flat chested. I know, your tits were all up in my mouth and my hands. They're plenty enough to make me happy, and I've seen and touched a lotta tits. I like tits. I like your tits. And you're petite, you're sixteen, girl. You're still growin'. You're all….vivacious and comin' into your own. Additionally, I like….small women. A lot. A lot," he repeats, emphatically. He addresses the last thing she says first, and then moves on to the rest.

"Ahem. And, as for the first bit, no," he says, flatly, "I haven't offered marriage to anyone else, ever. Remember when I leaned away from you the first time we were gonna get hitched, and gave myself that little pep-talk? About how I said I'd only do it once and that's it? That's it." He says, matter-of-factly, "Honestly, I hadn't …. Even thought of that plan till I first saw you," he leers, just a little, "You were smart. N' you could see things everyone else couldn't, because," he suddenly imitates her voice, "I myself am…strange and unusual. There was a…clause, in the Handbook's previous incarnations they retracted about marrying the living. I didn't….think it would work, a young pretty, yes pretty girl like you wasn't about to marry a corpse like me. So we had to make the deal. Make sure you wouldn't back out."

He doesn't make it clear exactly when he first saw her. Or how many times. Or where he was when he heard that line, but it was clear that while he was attempting to first occupy her house he saw and heard a lot . It was his job to know, and so he did. Especially when he was running a scam.

"And I scare people too. A lot. That's my job . I work hard at it. And as a scaring professional, babes, no offense, but you aren't scary. The living, though, they're stupid," he suddenly lights a cigarette, agitated at the sight of her choked up. "Stupid enough to ignore the strange and unusual. To ignore a pretty daughter's hickeys from a predatory older man. But," he gestures to her neck, "They ain't gonna be able to ignore those babes, I got a little over-excited."

At her last though, he sinks down the door, pressing his back to it until he's sitting. "I don't want you to go away." He fusses with the cigarette, not looking at her as she fiercely concentrates on removing her boots. "But I'm afraid you will, eventually. I don't…..I'm not…..I'm not the hero in your story. I'm the villain. I'm the one —-" he thinks about how many times exactly he's tricked her this past week, and growls at his knees, "—-I'm not good, Lyds. I'm tryin' to be. I want you ….I want you to like me, I want you to love me, but I need you to teach me . I'm tryin' to become the hero but you may have to settle for somethin' a little in-between."

His eyes meet hers, and his lips pucker and twist. "Maybe we jus' both wanna be seen. So," he takes a drag, and holds out the cigarette to her, "Why me? And no horse shit about wanting to die. You know I'd go after your parents a thousand times faster than you if I had uncontrollable revenge in mind. You're too smart for that."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia didn't want to die. She never really had. She just didn't want to be so fucking lonely anymore. His compliments regarding her physical appearance were taken with more weight than any of the previous ones, though that didn't say much for whether or not they got through to her. "You're still growin'."

"I don't think I am," she admitted, frowning at her reflection from her seat at the edge of the tub. She had to strain her entire body up to even breach the mirror's perimeter "I've been the same height for four years. This might be it for me."

The truth was never pretty. She had suspected that he haunted the house for a period before she or the Maitlands ever summoned him, but his direct quote of her own words- repeated from the handbook as they were- was the confirmation she needed. Once more, Lydia went undisturbed by this information. It seemed silly to apply human terms like "stalking" to his ethically questionable behavior. Instead, she quietly added this to the evergrowing list of sins she was willing to forgive, especially in the wake of the revelation that she was the only girl he had ever considered wife material. This information made her glow from within, joyous light taking over her deep shadows for the time being.

"They ain't gonna be able to ignore those babes, I got a little over-excited."

"We'll see," she concluded, unconvinced. "I'm not going to hide them. My father didn't notice these-" she flicked her lobe where three little onyx gems sat nestled, glimmering, "- until a year after the fact. He was so mad." From the gentle smile on her face, it could be inferred that this was a pleasant memory.

When Betelgeuse sunk down to the floor, Lydia started, disturbed to see him so downtrodden. It was wrong, like watching a wounded lion.

"That's not true," she insisted urgently, dropping down to her knees before him and resting her backside on her now bare feet. "You took Bubby away from a horrible, horrible life! I don't like the way you did it, but you- you-" she struggled for a moment to find the proper phrasing, before eventually settling on something melodramatic, but accurate, "- avenged me to Claire and Stacy. You saved Adam and Barbara, even if you were just doing it to get what you wanted- and I… I love them. I don't think I'd be alive right now if they weren't around."

She accepted the burning end of his cigarette, took two deep drags of bitter full-flavor, and stubbed it out right on the floor. Right into the expensively remodeled, clean tile, right next to his filthy boot.

"You are good," asserted once more, maintaining fierce eye contact, before leaning forward to cup both of his stubbly, moldy cheeks and press a soft, warm kiss to his forehead. "No matter how much you don't want to be. I would know. I'm smarter than you, remember?"

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

As Lydia goes into the Maitlands, and that she wouldn't be around without them, Betelgeuse keeps his doubts to himself. They couldn't keep a goldfish alive, according to him. But she stubs her cigarette out in a way that makes something of a mess on the tiled floor, and takes his stupid face in hers, and kisses him so sweetly, right there on the forehead . Why was that so kinky? Was it the fact that she had touched him so tenderly? A beast like him hardly deserves her light. His eyes look into her fierce honey colored ones as she holds his gaze so intently, silently searching for a moment. He doesn't know if she's right, but he'd like to believe she is. He hopes she is. For her sake.

His expression shifts, then, as if shaking himself out of the moment purposefully. "Alright alright," he says, "That's enough 'o that ." He tilts his head to nip at the fingers holding his face playfully, and he nods towards the shower, "You do what you gotta. I'm gonna go break into Charles' liquor cabinet 'cause I need a drink and also I definitely wanna see how many Cuban cigars of his I can smoke. I know that self-important prick has Cubans."

He pauses for a second before his face turns really wicked, and he wiggles a crooked clawed finger at Lydia, "But first," he says, "Daddy wants your panties. Cough 'em up, Lyds."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Her eyes went wide. The snow white skin on her face swirled with color; first pink, then a deep crimson that spread down to her neck, nearly blending in with her love bites. Clumsily, she climbed to a standing position, eyes locked on her feet as she inched the flimsy draping fabric of her skirt up, then thumbed her soiled panties down. She couldn't bear to physically hand the sopping garment to him, instead toeing it in his direction gingerly. Within her line of sight, a clawed hand snatched them up- like they were an insect to munch on. She heard a deep inhale that made her burn up inside all over again, and then there was a pop- and she knew he was gone.

Shaken, her knees buckled. It took several minutes of meditation before Lydia could collect herself enough to crawl into the shower and wash away the evidence of their tryst. Only the messier parts, though. No matter how hotly the water stung, there would be no purging the marks of his affection out of existence- not that Lydia had any desire to. The notes that played through her head as she cleansed took on a huskier tone than the sadder songs she usually preferred.

_"I got a guy who's always late,_  
_Anytime we have a date,_  
_But I love him,_  
_Yes, I love him."_

* * *

When she finally ambled out of the steaming bathroom nearly an hour later- shaving, lotioning, tending to her copious hair, and just being a girl, in general, took a long damn time- she found a clean, white men's shirt laying out on her bed. It was soft when she touched it, the material stretched and warn. But… there weren't any stains or holes. She questioned if it even belonged to him until holding it to her face and inhaling, much the same way he had done to her thong, and discovered the familiar scent of smoke. His brand.

This was his shirt, alright. Not one to turn down such a meaningful gesture, Lydia shucked her towel right to the floor and pulled the overly large button-up over her head. It was just as comfortable as she thought it would be and absolutely swallowed her. The hem trailed inches past her knees. Its sleeves had to be rolled and rolled and rolled up to her elbows if she wanted to use her hands at all.

After working her damp hair into twin braids that hung over her shoulder, she went looking for him. There were lights on all throughout the house and Lydia shut them off as she went. The window in her father's study was opened, his liquor cabinet dangling wide. These inconsistencies were corrected as well. When she descended down to the first floor and heard the home theatre system in the basement den blaring- a joint creation of Adam and her father, the man cave, as Delia called it- she knew she'd found her husband. He seemed entertained enough.

Satisfied that all was well with the world, Lydia went about making herself a sandwich, and then him one too as an afterthought. The worst that could happen is he didn't want it. He might, though. Adam and Barbara ate sometimes, so it stood to reason that he would too. In either case, Lydia would rather have something to offer than not.

Betelgeuse was throned up like a king in her father's armchair; boots and jacket missing, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned to the point that a wife-beater was visible, cigar clenched between his teeth and a glass of grade A Johnny Walker in hand. Bubby was fast asleep on the floor beside the lazyboy but perked up at the sound of his mistress' light footsteps padding across carpet. Like a good boy, he saw the plates in her hand, knew they weren't meant for him, and stayed in place.

Her bluray copy of House on Haunted Hill was playing. The original, with Vincent Price.

"Here," she handed him his plate before taking up mantle on the couch, eyes already glued to the screen. "You don't have to eat it if you don't want, but if you give it to Bubby take the tomato and onion off first, please. I know he's not a normal dog, but I'd rather not chance it."

Politely, she waited until she was done speaking before taking her first bite of food.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

He had indeed looked for the comfiest spot in the house after a quick self-tour and smash-and-grab in Charles' office. He'd seen most of it, but a lot of it had changed since he last wandered the Deetz-Maitland home unfettered. Now it was some sort of weird half-and-half modern farmhouse stitch-up, as if one portion of the house had swallowed parts of the other. He initially considered the master bedroom but thought that might be too much , so when he located the "man-cave" he knew he had found paradise.

Oh, how he wished he could inhabit this place. He'd ruin it, to be sure, by changing everything about it…but the bones were good. He could tell which chair was Chuck's, it was the cushiest one in the room, plush and leathery, with a cigar tray on a small table next to the armrest. It's here that he sets up, master of the house, with Bubby lumbering behind him and settling in on the plush carpet next to his chair. The lazyboy reclines as a function, he discovers and so he leans it back just enough, kicking his boots off and placing his grey sock covered feet up onto the coffee table in front of him. He unhooks his tie, pops open his button-down, and grunts in satisfaction.

He lights a cigar, and pours himself a sparkling glass of Johnny Walker, and remembers what it was like to be alive. Yes .

As Lydia enters the room, demure and dressed in the oversized shirt that he left for her, he almost purrs. She looks like a vision, and he couldn't have asked for a prettier picture than her stepping onto the soft carpet, barefoot, dressed in something of his. Her braids almost make her look like a school-girl, and that's awfully titillating on its own. There's an indication of ownership there that he likes, perhaps too much. As she makes her way closer, he can smell her – the soft, rich scent of cocoa butter. Delicious. She certainly has made herself perfumed and pretty for him. "There's my girl," he murmurs, eying her up and down, and finally noting that she's carefully carrying two plates.

She hands him one, and on it is a sandwich. She made him….a sandwich. This throws him for a loop, and it takes him a moment to know what to do about it. His silence could be interpreted a number of ways, but he's realized at that moment that no one has ever made him anything. The last person to try was Bea Geuse, but his strange self-made assemblage of a family doesn't really count in this instance. He's always cooked very badly for himself or ordered in Italian, just to have something to do, and mostly enjoyed an assemblage of disgusting things like worms, maggots, roaches, and beetles which he's acquired a horrific taste for. Slowly, carefully, he takes a bite after he says, "Bubby ain't getting' any of this."

It was fresh, full of delectable meats, and topped with hearty bread. Tomato, lettuce, onion. The works. It was the best sandwich he'd ever tasted if he were honest, but it isn't clear if that's because she made it for him or delivered it in a shirt-nightgown, or because she's very talented in the kitchen. Any and all of those answers led up to a quiet Betelgeuse, for just a moment, until he could finish sucking down the rest of it. She can tell visually he likes it, because it's gone faster than she could have probably expected, and he licks his fingers loudly in distinct pleasure after he's through.

"Yer a good missus, babes," he compliments her, voice impressed, "I knew you were responsible, good lookin', well-spoken, smart, nice tits, all that. But I didn't know you were such amazin' wife material."

He takes a sip of bourbon and puffs his cigar contently, only vaguely watching the film. He's seen it a hundred times, and is far more interested in watching Lydia, her adorable little feet peeking out from underneath his shirt-nightgown. Once he's decided she's eaten enough of the sandwich she made for herself, it seems he'd like one more thing to make his afternoon lounge complete.

"C'mere darlin," he instructs her. She was too alluring to have her sit all the way over there on the couch. He pats the chair, "Y'look cold."

She was probably not cold, and a corpse wasn't about to warm her up. But that didn't seem to bother Betelgeuse.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia was still glowing from his series of compliments- nice tits , wife material- when he suggested, not at all innocently, that she looked cold and should go over there. Instantly, she felt anything but cold. In fact, she was definitely burning up. On what felt to her like awkward, gangly legs, she obediently stood and closed the distance between them, stopping to lay her empty plate down in front of Bubby. Accordingly, the gentle beast lapped up the remaining crumbs and crust.

"I didn't think you'd like it," she admitted as she settled down onto the arm of the chair, taking his plate and laying it atop her licked-clean one. It received a similar tongue bath. "I've never seen you eat anything that has less than six legs before."

Lydia conveniently chose not to mention his attempted devouring of Claire and Stacy. The idea that he had literally eaten people before was not one she was willing to ruminate on. She dared to inch down all the way until her bottom was cushioned on his thigh, then drew her legs up and curled them in, wound tight thighs splayed over his lap. Still, her spine remained erect. It was an awkward position, but she wasn't quite brave enough to melt into him without more motivation. Knowing him, it wouldn't be long until he gave it.

Passively, she noted that he wasn't warm at all, though Lydia knew this was subject to change any second.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Well, I've never had a sandwich made for me," Betelgeuse argues regarding his choice of food, "So, what was the other option, really?" He teases, as Bubby licks both plates clean happily and gently. "I never learned to cook, really, Lyds. Mostly I ordered in a lot of Italian."

As Lydia obediently joins him on the chair, he smiles, "That's a good girl," he murmurs in praise as she settles atop him. She curls up on his lap in that funny little way and it puts her little feet right at hand-level. Unable to resist at this point, he uses the tips of his claws to lightly tickle the soft bottoms. This absolutely causes an immediate reaction, squirming and giggles – oh, she's ticklish . Betelgeuse delights to discover it, and he pursues her further, tickling up her legs. All the way up her legs, which causes a great fit of wiggling and laughing protest.

His hands glide up into the overly-big shirt, torturing her just a little more with the tips of his clawed fingers gently before they drift and explore further, the edges of her perfect, pert little ass cheeks, and around the insides of her thighs. It is there that his fingers find purchase against her very soft, lovingly shaved mound, and those dark eyes widen with surprise and interest.

"Oh, I see," he rumbles low in his throat, sticking the tip of his tongue out between his teeth, "Naughty girl. Nothing on but my shirt, and this," two of his hidden fingers push gently against her smoothly shaved outer lips. They seem quite thick against her petite sex. "Just for me?"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

"Mercy!" She cried out loud as he tortured her, writhing and pleading for freedom. "Oh, please, please, pleeease stop stop!"

Her shrieking laughter did not disturb Beelzebub, who was content to let his Master play. Instead, the beast tilted his head at them before lazily getting up from the floor, hopping to the couch, and going to sleep. Traitor , she thought absently, before refocusing her energy on begging. Somewhere under her notice, his tricky hands went from playful to searching, but her tickled sensitive nerves were unable to tell the difference.

"Just for me?"

Her lungs ached from laughter. She thought her heart might beat out of her chest, it was thumping so hard, so fast, like a hummingbird trapped beneath her ribcage. Tired limbs were splayed out over him in a helpless heap. One strong arm rested lazily around her waist, the other lazing just as easily between her legs. Holding her down was cake for him, not that this was news. A familiar weight twitched and prodded beneath her bare bottom, trying to shove its way between her cheeks.

The pads of his fingertips felt so rough. She remembered his nails as being very sharp . They could tear right through her like tissue paper into a wood chipper. Nevertheless, what could she tell him but the truth?

"Yes," she breathed, panting and weakened.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

The _admission_. Oh, little girl. You know not what you do. Or, alternately, you know exactly what you do. Either way, Betelgeuse was going to indulge her. Indeed, she could feel the sensation of those claw-tips brushing ever so lightly against some rather sensitive portions of her anatomy. But he was careful, and after a moment he withdraws his hand to chew nastily on his pointer and index fingers, ridding them brutally and quickly of their sharp danger and spitting the tips quickly over the side of the chair.

Looking much more like normal, if still dead, fingers he works them back between her legs. He can touch her much more freely now, and he takes complete advantage, slowly working to nestle them between those outer lips. He begins rubbing back and forth in a slow, gentle rhythm, stroking her, the arm holding her to him pulling her until she's resting with her head near his shoulder. He can feel she's wet already, quickly coating his fingers in her sweet, warm juices. That's what he likes. Good girl.

He nuzzles her earlobe, and murmurs sweetly to her, his voice gravelly, almost a whispered growl, "I wanna do so much to you, Lyds. I wanna feel you shake for me. You beg so sweetly, girl, I wanna make y'beg, and plead, n' moan. Y'get me so _anxioussss_… "

He hisses the last with his tongue flickering like a snake's in her ear, just once – briefly and it's gone, as his fingers start to threaten pushing inside of her, as if trying to gauge how much she can handle. His fingertips slowly edge the smaller, soft inner folds and rim of that tender, slippery opening, and he makes a noise low in his throat. He's taking his time about it, but eventually, the tips of his two fingers slide inwards up until the first knuckle, just enough to get a taste. "Oooohh," he breathily murmurs into her ear again, almost panting to her, "You're so tight, babes…"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

When his tongue penetrated her ear, she shivered, gasping so sharply it stabbed through the surround sound speaker system. The crude way he had sacrificed his claws without a second thought made her already drowning form positively flood for him, softening his callouses and easing his sinful strokes. In contrast to his previously rushed, eager touches, this was slow. Patient. The devil played her body like she was his very own fiddle. He was being so nice, so gentle with her. The evil things he whispered didn't even give her the spike of a thrill they might have if he was really pinning her down. He touched her like she was a timid, abused kitten that needed to be taught how to love again.

Wasn't he the one who said he didn't know how to love? Lydia didn't believe him. He was doing a wonderful job from her perspective. Under his attention, her legs drifted open until they were splayed wide, hooked over each of his stretched out legs. In typical villainous fashion, he milked the opportunity to pull her further into his trap; sinking down deeper into the chair, bending his knees so that her thighs stretched even further apart for him. He had full access to her now- as if he hadn't before . Her sensitive ears and neck were within biting distance, her supple backside was pushed firmly against his rigid, eager cock, and his wrist was at an easy angle to slam those thick, meaty fingers right into her at whatever pace he wanted.

Like a fool, she trusted him. The girl whimpered at the dark promises hidden beneath his filthy confessions and tilted her neck toward the caressing hand in her damp braid, simultaneously granting the wolf better access to her vital arteries. They pulsed wildly, a breath away from his cruel teeth. She wanted very badly to return his dirty talk, if only to prove herself but was simply unable. Instead, she gave him what he wanted, twisting her hips until his thick dick was nestled nice and snug between her ass cheeks and his fingers slipped further in, nearly to the second knuckle. She was almost able to suppress the yelp of discomfort at the intrusion, managing to choke the embarrassing sound into a short, distressed whine.

"Please," she begged gently, fulfilling his heinous wishes, "keep being _soft_ with me... I like it."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Betelgeuse was, if anything, particularly sensitive to specific situations – for all his boorish nature, there was always a reason behind his actions, usually not laziness, and usually not complacency. He was a showman, which the Maitlands were too stupid to realize the first time they met him. He could scare! What, they wanted a gentleman too? So, now, he's gentle. Especially since he certainly left her bruised and sore and dirty earlier, exactly like he pleased.

As she blossoms for him, her legs sliding open invitingly and urging him to keep going, he hisses out slowly through his teeth. Especially as he draws her in, the hiss turns into a soft, throaty noise as her smooth and squeezable ass neatly slides his trapped arousal between each cheek. She was placed perfectly then, fully accessible, and he nuzzled into her neck after whispering dark promises to her. He didn't bite her, no, not yet . He liked the idea of her simply waiting for it to happen and then delivering when she least expected it.

She was trembling, heart beating like a frightened doe, he could feel it. But her actions betrayed her energy – pushing his cock deep into the sweet flesh of her ass, working him in even further. He let go a breathy groan, especially as she lowers herself onto his meaty fingers, growling out an encouraging, "That's it…." even as she made a noise that clearly indicated this was quite a lot for her – that concept in itself making the lustful thing in his chest ache. He wanted to have his way with her, desperately, the burning sensation between his thighs almost intolerable. But, he's a ghoul that loves torture, and denying himself is a new titillating experience …. especially when he has such delicious things to focus on. He nuzzles at her earlobe and kisses gently, slowly down her neck, his one hand drawing away from her soft braid in order to pop open a few more buttons on the front of her shirt. Skillfully, he manages it with the one hand, and his mossy plush lips kiss downwards, moving across all the bite marks, between them, into the snowy, pinked peaks of her youthful breasts. He delicately holds one, dedicated to taking his time with it, dragging his broad tongue across the soft nipple hungrily.

His fingers continue to push into that deep, wet tunnel of muscle. It's easier the deeper he goes and as he does he gently works her open around them. Oh, she squeezes so deliciously around his digits, though, pulling at him, and he can only imagine what she'll feel like once he's got his cock inside of her. He hasn't yet determined when he will, but the idea of it makes him clench his teeth in desire, listening harder at the noises she makes. He begins to thrust after he determines she's pliant enough, heavy, long strokes of his fingers that are achingly slow. The slick motions make lewd, slippery sounds after a while as he increases his speed just enough, accompanied by the low growls that keep pulling from his throat against the mounds of her soft breasts. "That's my girl….you like it when I take my time, hm? I have all the time in the world for ya, baby…. I'll be as soft as you want. Gotta make sure you can handle all of me when you're ready…_every inch…._"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

_"That's it…"_

His rumbles of encouragement helped her to embrace the foreign- but not- sensations down below. Oh, ohh his fingers were so long and thick. She couldn't help but carefully recall the way she studied his hand once, in the shadows of her bedroom. After baring her soul to him, letting him sink his teeth in and take a big, fat, tasty bite of her black heart. Her muscles sucked his digits in- clenching, pulsing- almost as much as he pushed, but it was still so much. His tongue was cold when it first lathed her nipple, distracting her from the wonderful discomfort. The points of the pearlescent mounds, once icy pink and unblemished, were now closer in shade to that of a blushing rose, darkened from his previous abuse.

It was already hard before he bathed it with his frigid tongue, but the shock served to tighten it almost to the point of pain. But then, without giving her time to adjust to the abrupt change, the long, striped, writhing appendage curling lazily about her breast was searing . His teeth didn't dare to scrape her, not once. The noises she made were erratic, unpredictable; sometimes low and slow, sometimes shrill and staccatoed. Her bodily spasms were similarly random. She was losing control of her faculties, twitching and jerking precariously, unwittingly easing his penetration. Soon, his knuckles were pressed tight against slick, hairless flesh, clipped talons bottomed out within her.

He didn't appear to be having any problems keeping up a steady pace. Without a care in the world, he withdrew, pulling out until just his fingertips were left inside. Vaccuous muscles sucked at them powerfully in protest. Just as casually, he indulged her body's demands, sinking in back down to the last knuckle. The blunted tips of his fingers prodded something that made her irregular, breathy sounds go high. Over and over and over again he did this, subtly increasing the force of his finger-fucking until he was- so, so slowly- beating his fist against sleek, silken, molten fire flesh. Their skin squelched and slapped as it joined and separated, drowning out Vincent Price's monologue. If she ever did meet him, Lydia wasn't sure how she would ever be able to look him in the eye without blushing.

Still, not much of the movie had passed. They couldn't have been doing this for very long, though it felt like an eternity had passed, each second spent in delicious, hedonistic torment.

_"Gotta make sure you can handle all of me when you're ready…every inch…."_

The last two words were punctuated with unhurried, pounding thrusts. The ridge of his fist grazed her clit. Too soon , she shattered apart in his arms. Just like in the alley, she sang for him, though this song was definitely sweeter than the last.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Betelgeuse's pants were getting soaked again, especially as he could feel Lydia's vaginal muscles tug, squeeze, pull and spasm enthusiastically around his fingers. He wanted to replace it with something else so very badly, but he was determined, steadfast in his resolve – it helped, of course, that this was searingly hot. If he could sweat he would be but by the positively evil, eager looks he's giving the girl on top of him from underneath his dark, hooded brow it expresses much the same.

Eventually, she reaches something of a stoked bonfire, and he can tell she's reaching the point of no return. The noises she's making, the slick rhythmic slapping, and his growled encouragement that all but drown over Price's syrupy voice combine into an absolutely obscene orchestra. His entire fist is practically dripping with her enthusiasm, in fact, every time his knuckles rut against her it urges more until thin rivulets drool down his wrist up to his elbow. She's rocking onto him now, too, trying impossibly to get more of him inside of her. A part of him is indeed tempted to add another finger, but instead, he crooks the ones in use skillfully in order to feel for that fleshy, soft inner section of particularly sensitive muscle. He finds it, it seems, because it causes her to make quite a surprised, lustful noise and buck harder, making the ghost to chuckle pleasantly and greedily.

It doesn't take long after that – it seems his words of encouragement were highly motivating, and as he pushes in once more at a particularly good angle, one that brushes her clit, she tenses all her muscles. An orgasmic sonorous sound fills the room – and Betelgeuse is surprised and happily so that he's gotten her to that place so quickly. It's far too hot, really, and he lets go a lusty, growly sigh as she sings for him again, arching beautifully like a mermaid perched on the precipice of a cliff in his lap. It makes her ass dig against his trapped arousal, which jerks underneath her, begging for its own release. He doesn't know if he'll ever get tired of that noise, but as she sags against him he gently pulls his fingers from her.

His fingers and hand glisten, and he hungrily sucks them into his mouth, lathering them with his tongue, slurping noisily and shamelessly. She tastes so good, and he has to catch all the little streams that leaked almost as far as his elbows. Satisfied seeming, he's about to say something to Lydia before he winces just a bit, squirming fitfully underneath her – he unzips his fly suddenly and without warning, and she can feel an obscenely thick cock wetly slap against her backside rudely, bursting from the contents of his pants. The ghost slumps and rumbles out a relieved, gritty sigh.

"Uuhn, sorry babes – that bad boy's been achin' to get outta there for hours ." It isn't particularly glamorous, to be sure, but Betelgeuse doesn't seem to be too bothered by the appearance of his own dick. It does, however, twitch and leave a good thick smear of precum against poor Lydia's skin, she can probably feel that no question. He leans over the side of the chair, then, and waggles the bottle of Johnny Walker at her in offering, and chuckles almost breathlessly, helplessly mentioning,

"You're uh…..you're gonna be sore tomorrow, baby. You took nearly took m'hand off. Wasn't sure I was gonna get my fingers back.. but what a way to lose 'em."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

At the sensation of a soft, fat, rock hard rod of flesh releasing against her spine, Lydia was all too ready to accept the bourbon he offered. She held the bottle with both hands, lifting the bottom up toward the ceiling to take a generous swig. A grimace and shiver were the only indications given to show that it burned. Spent and alarmingly curious, she twisted around until she was curled up on one side of his lap. Cheek pressed to his pectoral, her eyes drifted down. Oh, no. There was no way that thing was going to fit inside of her. He was delusional. Lydia kept this thought to herself, not wanting to let him down. He seemed so pleased and happy.

She fed off of it. Her heart rate was slowing, breaths deepening. With heavy eyelids, she stretched in his lap, coming up to brush petal soft lips against his cheek. At the same time, she bravely grasped his cock- very, very lightly, testing. It twitched almost violently. Encouraged, she ran a featherlight touch-up and down, mapping out the shape. She wasn't looking at what she was doing though. She watched him, big curious eyes locked on his expression.

"I want to make you feel good, too."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Betelgeuse watches Lydia like an overly invested hawk as she drinks the Johnny Walker, impressed, but his gaze intensifies as she twists to see all of him out of sheer curiosity. That alone seems to please him, especially as he catches her ever so vaguely concerned expression – and he sticks his tongue between his teeth to chuckle low in his throat. He isn't exceedingly long like you might see on some sort of porn actor, but he definitely has girth and for a girl who hasn't seen a wide range of cock, his is ….well, sort of threatening, to be sure. He can almost see the thought that he won't fit flit across her face, and he chuckles a little louder in that mischievous tone that indicates he knows.

She moves again, and he lifts his hands away briefly from her as she stretches languidly against him like a lithe feline. She can see his nose wrinkle pleasurably as her lips ghost his cheek, those dark eyes glittering still as if waiting to see what she'll do – curious, interested. She does something unexpected and quite brave then, her petite hand wraps around his cock ever so gently and politely, and the groaning noise he makes in response is positively vile. Lydia will never know the electric feeling of that as light as it is, her soft, warm living skin caressing his and while one might expect him to be cold altogether, his body at least has the good sense to imitate a lustful heat for her benefit.

Her fingers as they drift so curiously and lightly up and down his length is pure, fire-hot torture and Betelgeuse's dark eyes squeeze shut to try and stay as in-control as he possibly can under it. He huffs out a slow, shivery breath, and one eye opens to see Lydia staring fiercely into her face. She's got him, and the faces that he progresses through are undignified, to say the least when she speaks.

"Oooh, L-Lyds," he swallows, "You do, y-you do." His brain screams at him in a thousand ways of what to do with her now with her request – he seems to settle on something after a moment, that dirty sneer returning, and his fingers tangle in her braids, giving them a tug downwards very lightly, "But…I can think of one way. On yer knees, girl."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia made no moves to wipe the slickness from between her thighs as she slid to the floor, kneeling between his spread legs. Feeling very brave indeed, she fumbled with unbuckling his belt and unfastening the button that still held his pants together. This revealed the hidden scant few inches of his cock's meaty base, feathered by an expectantly moss infested thatch of wiry, green-blonde pubic hair. Luckily, the parasitic growth didn't extend up the veiny mass of flesh. He sunk further into her father's chair at the freedom, getting comfortable. Lydia didn't have to strain as far to reach him now.

One hand on his thigh, the other holding his cock upright- her fingers couldn't reach all the way around, it was like holding a beer can- she proceeded to experiment. First, she attempted just one squeezing stroke, not too hard or fast, just to see what would happen. His reactions didn't disappoint. Instantaneously, a plump bead of precum surged from the head, rolling down and over her wringing fingers. Her eyes darted up to his face and she noticed his own were clenched shut in concentration, brows furrowed and twitching.

Maybe it would be better if... Following an impulse, she released the tight grip and used her now slick fingers to coat him head to base in his own secretions. Then, she took him in both hands. Working together, they were able to wrap around him fully. Eager to see how much more she could pull from him- because this was surprisingly easy, he was so responsive - she squeezed and stroked several times, each one drawing another fat drop of moisture.

It looked like normal cum. Lydia wasn't so innocent that she didn't know what semen was supposed to look like. Eventually, the need to know what it tasted like lured her tongue out past her lips to flutter like a butterfly against the fat, weeping head; softly, gently, there and then gone.

The look on her face must have been precious. He tasted like chocolate.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Ohhhh. She was feeling rambunctious, indeed. The ghoul internally commended her bravery, every ounce of him fully prepared to take advantage of her obviously slightly inebriated state. She'd loosened up and he can tell, and he likes it . She behaves well when she seems to be a little encouraged, a little relaxed, and a little fucked all at once. Betelgeuse makes a note in his head - he's learning. She adorably pulls open his belt with delicate, fumbling hands, and he eases back into the chair in relief as she frees the rest of him, a throaty, thick sigh escaping his lips. Lydia thankfully doesn't seem to be off-put by the natural state of affairs, that mossy overgrowth indeed having made its way like a green snail-trail down his front and into the thatch of wiry hair he sports. It's what tends to happen when you're a corpse, and there was no sense in hiding it – though his self-consciousness earlier in her bathroom seemed…mildly ridiculous now.

Was it possible to think someone's hand looked cute on one's cock? Betelgeuse was musing such things because Lydia's hand did indeed look mightily cute, barely able to grasp the entire girth. It was a fleeting thought, though, the idea of her looking so small and demure between his thighs because soon enough she had stroked him in earnest, just once, and he nearly has to bite his tongue in half in order to not soak her face and hand instantaneously. His hips almost buck upwards but settle for a controlled, gentle roll instead, encouraging her to further action of some kind. And she does intuitively the hottest thing possible, which is to use his own pre to slick up his shaft and then double hand it. He curses, his claws sinking into the leather of poor Charles' chair, eventually leaving it with some pretty deep scratching marks from tearing at it underneath the waves of pleasure from Lydia's actions. She milks him easily as if imbued with some innate skill, stroking him on further.

It was too good, and just when the ghost had it in his head it couldn't get any better, that's when he feels that light, light kiss of tongue against the ever so sensitive ruddy tip of his cock. His eyes open at that moment to look down at her, just to catch her expression, and he breathlessly mumbles, "You dig chocolate, don'tcha Lyds?" before his hand pushes against the side of her braids, and he uses his other hand to gently nudge the tip of his cock back towards her lips, eager to capitalize on her inebriated bravery, "There's more where that came from, little girl….but you'll have to open wider…."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Like a good girl, Lydia obeyed his every demand. Opening wide, she sucked the entire leaking head of his cock into the searing softness of her mouth. She did dig chocolate. Generally, she preferred lighter, saccharine white chocolates made with cocoa butter and vanillas. He tasted deep and dark, bittersweet and salty. Like the gourmet treats her father purchased for Delia on Valentine's Day that the woman picked at before passing off to her stepdaughter in favor of "maintaining her figure." Lydia had no such hang-ups then, and she definitely didn't now. She did, however, fleetingly wonder if this was fattening.

The familiar, unthreatening flavor served to make the inherently scary thing she was doing very un-scary. He was delicious. Though he only just barely fit in her mouth, her gag reflex didn't seem bothered by the foreign object nudging impossibly at the back of her throat. That was something that was simply never going to happen. Physics wouldn't allow it. He would be lucky if her lips ever breached the halfway point. Clawed hands- minus two fingers- twined in her braids, tugging along and helping her fall into the pulsing rhythm his hips were setting. The noises he made were awful and she loved them. He gasped and snarled, choking filthy, incomprehensible words into the air. The muscles between her legs were aching again. Her thighs squeezed together, slick with sweat, cum, and body butter, but the pleasant pressure wasn't enough.

Lydia was positively dizzy with confidence. Nothing she could do was wrong. This in mind, one tiny hand relieved itself of the perilous effort to choke the fat base of his cock into submission. Instead, greedy for more pleasure, it crept down between her clenched tight thighs, white fabric bunching on the way. She was no stranger to touching herself, but had always done so in a passively curious way; practical and anatomical. This was pure exhibitionism. The bundle of nerves above her sweetly-fucked entrance was still sensitive from her previous orgasm, and when she stroked it very, very lightly, it convulsed with sudden heat. She would have gasped around his cock, but there was no room. Instead, she just sucked him deeper and a honeyed, high-pitched sound resonated up her throat only to be muffled into the delicious hunk of meat trying desperately to fuck it. Reflexive tears were blurred her vision, dampening her cheeks. Probably from the lack of oxygen. Lydia was too lost in the sensations to care. Choking on cock was an admittedly embarrassing cause of death, but what a way to go.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Even in his wildest, dirtiest fantasies, Betelgeuse couldn't possibly imagine how intensely, intensely sexy Lydia looked between his thighs. And, beyond that, how beautifully her little lips stretched to accommodate the thickness of his drooling cock. Even further, as if slathering a cake with the best, most decadent icing, she had managed to work him almost to the back of her throat. Normally, even a practiced nightwalker would be gagging, but not his Lydia. No, his talented, beautiful bride had somehow nearly swallowed a good portion of him, and he can feel the slick back of her throat trying to suck more of him down, impossibly so.

His control breaks, then, and he curses, the noises that fill the room due to her attentions are a positively filthy, lustful jumble. His thighs almost tuck around her, his hand that tangle in her braids being relatively gentle, but she can feel his grip tighten as he starts to roll his hips towards her, slowly beginning to fuck into her mouth, unable to help himself. Every single part of her sweet, warm heat, her delicate tongue, her soft and tight inner places were driving him wild as if it were made exclusively for him. He wasn't going to last long like this, his cock was already twitching, bucking inside the constraints of her lovely little lips, and with each rush of tumescence, she could feel a surge of wet, warm chocolatey liquid spill into her mouth. Of course, he was messy. One day, he's going to bury her adorable nose in that wiry thatch of his and bottom out in her throat, his gut pushing against her forehead, he determines – but that will take some careful positioning and he's far too long gone at the moment to even consider pursuing it.

He leans forward just a little as his heat is brought to a fever pitch, ready to hunch over and hump recklessly into the poor girl's face like an animal – but he retains just enough self-control to keep steady for now, though she can feel the pulses inside her mouth quicken. He's stiffening, growing impossibly hard inside her – and of course, leaning up in such a way gives him the perfect view of her hand sliding down between her thighs, delving underneath the edges of the shirt she wears that's his in order to lustfully touch herself. And she moans, the muffled dulcet sound reverberating all around his cock in response. It's too much, too tremendously hot, and with a snarling roar of some truncated version of her name his orgasm hits, cock lurching, exploding a fountain of warm, thick cum down her throat. He pushes her head down, holding her steady with almost clamped fingers in her hair as he floods her. Indeed, it's a lot , almost too much. He seems to know, though and pulls mostly out of her mouth to permit her to breathe as he continues to gush, coating her tongue in a syrupy salty-sweet mixture. Eventually, it seems to tap out, and that's when he slumps back again, almost dizzily, his hands blissfully easing in their grip.

"Fuck," is all he grunts, his throat raw sounding. There's so much else he could say, then, but he settles on a more emphatic, "Fuckin' _hell_, girl."

His tongue runs around his dry lips, and he visually soaks her in for a moment as his body slowly eases from orgasm, her cheeks flushed, still nestled between his legs. She's heavenly looking: rumpled, lips flushed and glistening wet, so deliciously abused. Her hand is still pitifully between her thighs, heatedly pleasuring herself, and he tugs on the collar of the shirt she wears somewhat insistently.

"C'mere," he mumbles, almost drunkenly, hunger still edging his voice, "Daddy wants you to sit on his face, princess ."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia, never one to leave a job incomplete, didn't stop lathing his cock with her attention until it was done spurting sweet chocolatey goodness for her, slick with her saliva and nothing else.

"It was… okay?" She questioned, already crawling up from the floor into his lap upon his demand. It was easier this way; letting him tell her what to do, not having to worry about whether or not she was moving too fast or too slow, or doing something wrong. "I've never- I mean… I have ... but not like that. It was good?" Intoxicated and drunk on pleasure, her tongue was loose.

Clumsily, she climbed up his body, concentrating very hard on not slipping and kneeing him, or losing her balance and falling off the chair. The bourbon had fully settled in by now. Her vision was swimming, and everything seemed absolutely lovely . She eventually settled sitting high on his chest, thighs spread around his face. Gripping the top of the chair, she leaned over his head to gaze down at the ground suspiciously.

"I… don't think this is safe. I think… I will fall." Frowning as though she'd just said something deeply disappointing to him and she was sorry, she scooted down just enough to hunch in and press a sympathetic smooch to his nose.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

She was so good he didn't deserve her. She dedicated her attention to his cock until he was fully, and completely satiated. Whether or not it had to do with his fun flavor mattered not to the ghost, she was pure and generous, and altogether far too kind. As she crawled into his lap obediently, he strokes the side of her face, the leering grin on his face returning. So sweet. So eager to please. He could have so much fun with this.

"The best," he murmurs, truthfully. "Girl, I haven't had that much attention put into my dick in …." he thinks about it, "Eh, ever, if I'm gonna be honest."

As she climbs him like a wobbly feline, he just keeps smiling, though, "That's a girl…." He says and then chuckles as she perches on his chest. Her thighs were so soft and lithe, and he nuzzles into them shamelessly as they caress his face. Every part of her was youthful and sweet, and every perverted part of his mind relished it. As she mentions falling, he laps hungrily at the inside of one of her legs, blinking up at her with wide eyes as she smooches his nose. God, she was sweet. It makes him laugh more fully, immediately using his arms to loop around her thighs supportively.

Once he has her fully gathered against his chest and shoulders with his arms, Lydia finds herself being lurched upwards. His head delves forward, lips and tongue finding the sweet, soft junction of her thighs. Instinctively, her legs clench around his head and her calves and feet hook onto his shoulders, her small body almost wrapping around his head as he lifts her – it angles her perfectly towards him, his wiry hair tickling between her knees. The ceiling in the den is relatively low, but she suddenly finds the top of her head touching the ceiling, the ghosts' feet lifting entirely off the floor by a good inch.

"Y'never gotta worry about fallin' with me around," he mumbles almost into her pussy, "I'll always catch you."

He drifts them both over to the couch easily, in a small, graceful movement. Bubby realizes he's suddenly in the way of his master and he lopes off the couch cushions he occupies to sprawl out on the carpeted floor with a long, bored sigh. Betelgeuse is inclined to give in fully to his hunger then, especially as he can taste her delicious skin, and feel her heat almost against his lips. He lays his bride on her back gently on the couch and pushes her legs up just enough to spread her nicely for him. He doesn't warn her - instead he apologetically pushes his face firmly between her legs and licks slowly, hungrily up between her glistening lips. She tastes delicious, as he discovered while lapping her juices off his fingers and arm, but this is even better somehow, so warm, so pliant. He can't fuck her fully quite yet, but he can do something else.

She can feel the slippery, long appendage that is his tongue suddenly push into her, but it's so much thicker now. He's made some adjustments, it seems, and he yawns her around its girth as if it were his cock. His lips work against her pussy, kissing, sucking, the noises of his efforts positively disgusting, fervid. He threatens to devour her from the bottom up, it seems, and his tongue is so hungry, thrusting deep into her, the substitute almost as demanding as the real thing. He's almost violent, taking her as he desires for once as if testing to see how much he can actually push, how much he can take before she begs him to stop. His claws dig into her thighs to desperately anchor her. It's him that wants this, now, to reach her innermost places, to lap up all that sweet, giving nature of hers like the monster he really is.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

The world was spinning for her when he floated them up and off the recliner, all the way over to the couch. She was still trying to settle her kaleidoscopic vision when he nudged her legs apart with his head, very casually. His first slow, gentle lick disarmed her, made her think she was due for more tender, loving care from her attentive husband. How very wrong she was. This was brutal. He was going to rip her apart.

"Beej," she screeched, fisting weak hands in his filthy hair to no avail. "I can't! I can't," she repeated desperately because he obviously wasn't hearing her. "It's too much! Oh, please, please, baby, please," she rambled on, pleading for him the way he told her he would make her.

He was ironically deaf to her begging. Almost mockingly, he cut off her bucks of protest with an unyielding grip, talons digging into her already bruised thighs. The saving grace was that his lips were still being kind to her, if messy. They kissed and sucked hungrily around his violating tongue, and despite the sudden agony, Lydia was very quickly forced past the threshold into yet another orgasm. Tortured wails filled the room, cutting off her disjointed outcries of dissent. She thought he would stop then, sated by her screams, but he didn't. If anything, he went at her harder, as if afraid that given a moment of respite, she might be able to form the proper words to stop him.

Lydia didn't know if she wanted him to stop anymore. After the first peak, his assault became less _bitingly painful_ and more _deliriously uncomfortable_. It was a subtle distinction but made a world of difference. This was tolerable. She could allow this. He was an excellent teacher. He knew what he was doing. Maybe he was treating her this way so it would be easier for her later when he finally laid with her properly. That made the most sense. He was doing this because he cared about her. How sweet.

Struck with a pang of affection, her feeble grip on his matted hair crumpled into gentle, loving strokes, even as his defiling grew increasingly violent. When a third orgasm hit her, she released him completely, practically going limp after finishing this wave of convulsions. She simply didn't have the energy to properly react to the immense pleasure he was dishing out. Stretched beyond her limits, she was boneless beneath him, ready and willing to accept whatever he had to give her.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Her pleading only makes him growl, and soon enough his actions make her roll through two torturous orgasms, offering her little to no relief. If she had really had much experience with him, she would have realized that she had the misfortune of understanding his intentions here. He was releasing some low, dark hunger that had plagued him since he started desiring her, and this overly intense, overly enthusiastic lovemaking was simply that – it was for him this time, violating her in a way that he simply couldn't before. He's taken advantage of her good nature and inebriation to push her to her limits, taking her body for his own, claiming her in beastly fashion.

And, in some perverse way, it was because he did care for her. Overly much, perhaps, and in ways that were unnatural at their core. He wanted so much from her. As she begins to weakly stroke his hair he knows he has her, then, and as she's overcome with a third orgasmic rush, he can feel her clamp down on his tongue in a way that indicates her mortal body is fully and completely spent. Something dangerous in his chest desires to push her more, but he can tell it would be hazardous to say the least and so he relents. He gently and slowly withdraws from her, and he can see her eyes fluttering, struggling to stay awake and failing, her body trembling as the adrenaline coursing through her system earlier crashes her down hard. She's exhausted in so many ways.

He forgets, he always forgets in his greediest moments….especially with as much as he's put her through today, how the living really do need to break, to rest, to stop. He has no such limits and hasn't for a long time, and so he quietly re-buttons some of her crumpled shirt and gathers her into his arms like a possessive gargoyle, carrying her back into Charles' chair and settling in with her. She falls into a deep exhaustive sleep, then, her head lulling against his chest, completely vulnerable to him. But, he takes no advantage then except to undo her pretty braids and stroke her hair, conjuring a blanket with a beetle pattern and wrapping her in it like an overtired child.

"I think," he murmurs sighing into the room, knowing she's far gone, then, "I think I love you, y'stupid, beautiful Lydia Deetz."


	9. The Sleepover

**_Lydia's__ P.O.V._**

A deep growl woke her up. It didn't originate from Betelgeuse but from the belly of a different beast. Her husband was gone. He had left her alone- Bubby notwithstanding- dry-mouthed, fuzzy-headed, confused, and sore. The last she remembered the ceiling was spinning, suddenly she was laying out on the couch, and then…

Lydia was not allowed a spare moment to consider the dangerous implications of the state she found herself in, and the sinking sensation in her chest that came along with it. Bubby's growling grew louder, fat jowls peeling back to reveal vicious teeth, and he set himself up at the bottom of the stairs, fur raised and ready to attack. The only light in the room emanated from the enormous mounted television, halfway through screening season one of The Twilight Zone, until the door to the first floor opened, casting a bright yellow glare down the steps. Oh, no.

All hell broke loose.

There was screaming and crying all around. Delia did most of the screaming. Lydia did most of the crying. While it was true that the young girl was granted certain liberties around the house, this was due in part to the fact that she was careful . She cleaned up after herself. She moved so confidently and without remorse in her casual theft of liquor and smokable material- an outlet for teenage rebellion, a cure for boredom- that she never got caught. It wasn't that her parents weren't at the very least aware of her pilfering, so much as they ignored it because of how neatly she did it. Lydia was a good girl. She did her chores and homework, got good grades, stayed out of trouble and out of their way. They could afford to look the other way if a cigarette or two went missing, if there was a little less Jack in the bottle than there was the day before.

However, as Betelgeuse had warned her, there was no way they could ignore this.

A three-thousand dollar bottle of Johnny Walker was gone, drank down to the last drop. A third of a box of Cuban cigars were smoked down to the tip. There were tears in her father's armchair– _"Obviously, the work of that rabid animal,"_ Delia had sneered, already on hold with animal control. It took some stern convincing to lure Beelzebub outside. He didn't lurk at the end of the driveway tonight, instead circling close to the house, ears pinned back and teeth perpetually bared. The commotion inside had him set on edge.

Lastly, their precious daughter looked rather… ravaged. Contrary to what Lydia might believe, Delia and her father certainly noticed her last hickey. Her father had been inclined to _"hunt the little bastard down"_ but Delia reigned him in, reminding him how little social contact Lydia really had, to let her have this one thing. But this… this was too much for even the progressively minded redhead. Lydia hadn't just crossed a line. She rode a motorcycle across it, guns a-blazing into the sunset.

As it was, her father and Delia were not accustomed to punishing her. She didn't have any friends to see or places to be, other than school, making a typical grounding seem inadequate. So, they hit her where it hurt. Her camera. It was confiscated- _"until she could conduct herself like a proper young lady"_\- taken and hidden away in some secret place that Lydia probably couldn't reach. Like she was a child. It made her burn with rage. Furious tears rolled down her cheeks as she limped upstairs under her parents' judgmental gaze donned in nothing but his gifts; the ultimate walk of shame. Those tears turned frantic once her head hit the pillow, quickly soaking the soft jersey fabric in her despair.

Did they fuck? She didn't even know. From the scant amount of blood she wiped away from between her legs, she was inclined to think they had. She didn't blame him if they did. She remembered enough to recall how enthusiastically she returned his advances, bending to his every whim. He only had so much self-restraint. She could have tried to resist him a little. This was her fault, really. As much as she tried to will them away, the tears wouldn't stop. She didn't want to call him, didn't want him to see her like this. So disgustingly weak and needy ... dependant … but the pain was too much, and she knew he would have the words to make it stop.

"Betelgeuse," she shuddered out faintly into her damp pillow and cuddled the plush beetle-blanket closer.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Betelgeuse, on the other hand, was having to deal with none of his prior night's actions. In fact, he was off on another job and had left Lydia some sort of note that she probably didn't see or read. He stayed with her as much as he could the night prior, lost in thought, holding her. He was swimming with possessiveness, so much so that it very well could have been a growl of frustration as Lydia awoke, melding with Bubby's vocal alert as he disappeared before the Deetzes materialized.

He was in the middle of his work when he heard that familiar whisper of his name, that tug in his chest, which absolutely told him his name had been said at least once . And there was only one person on heaven and earth who could say his name with any kind of effect. Lydia. Either she was in trouble, or she was remembering their prior night. Titillating as an idea. Either way, it deserved attention. There was complete and utter chaos swirling around him, he was teaching the current ghosts in the house how to scare their poor living hell out of their unwelcome living move-ins. They were slow learners, and the ghost was getting frustrated anyway.

He appeared in her mirror in a shimmering haze at first before coming in clear, all grimaces, his face more death-like than usual. He looked a lot like he did when he tried to connive her into her first deal: dark, confident, a force that was just patiently waiting to be released.

"Hey babes," he greets her, not seeing what was currently her state exactly at first, but the noises in the background of his image were horrendous sounding. Screaming, crashing, howling, it sounded like someone being murdered and thrown around a room.

"Shut UP," he suddenly howls over a shoulder, voice pitched high, "I'm TALKIN' TO MY WIFE!" Abruptly, he reaches off to the side and grabs someone, wrestling them into the frame of her mirror. "Say hello to Mister Patel," he grabs the utterly bewildered middle-aged Indian man's hand and waves it, mushing his lips around with his other hand, "Hiii, Lydia."

He muscles the poor soul around easily, shaking his shoulders in an overly-friendly, aggressive way, adding, "Mister Patel here has two unwelcome guests in his house. Don't you, Raahithya? And you're what?"

The man hesitantly answers, his accent thick, "Going to…ah, going to—-scare them. Out."

"Veeeeery good!" Betelgeuse crows, bopping the poor, poor man on his nose and shoving him back out of frame, "NOW GET BACK TO WORK!" He hollers demandingly, and then adds in a whispered growl almost to himself, "Daddy 'ere has to see what his little woman's been up to."

He can see her now, thrown over her bed limply, her face partially buried in her arms and the beetle blanket he had wrapped her in. Part of his heart thrills at this, before he notices her cheeks are flushed, and it's obvious she's been crying. This gives the ghost immediate cause to action, saying something to his current victims about "staying right there, keeping it up, we'll move downstairs next."

A booted heel lifts him through the mirror, "Don't worry baby," he mutters, struggling through her vanity in a mess of stripes and limbs, "I'm c….I'm comin', see? I'm comin' for ya— whassamatter?"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia's first attempt at answering his question was terrible. It was little more than a sobbing, hiccupped apology for interrupting his work followed by a gentle reminder to please be nice to the baby ghosts, they were still learning. The next was marginally better, but that wasn't saying much. Shoulders quivering, she wept a jerky string of mumbled, incomprehensible gibberish into her blanket. She was still wearing the white button-up. The sky was dark, but the house was quiet, indicating that enough time passed since he left that the Deetzes had retired for the evening– and yet Lydia was still awake.

Drowning in her emotions, she remained motionless, on the verge of hyperventilating into her pillow her grief was so deep. However, when she felt the familiar tug of his claws raking through her sinuous locks- lightly scraping her scalp, catching at the nape and pulling oh so gently- Lydia couldn't continue to deny herself the perfect safety and comfort that his embrace offered. As often as he made his pseudo-threats at her, got a kick out of making her nervous, he never really hurt her. Not really.

With a broken cry, she flung herself into his arms, clinging her own around his neck and burying her damp face into the hollow of his throat. Then, she told him everything.

"I don't," she sniffled, burrowing into him, "I don't remember what happened. I woke up, and- and you were gone, and Bubby wouldn't stop growling at my parents." This was sobbed especially pitifully as if it were a benchmark of her own failings as his Mistress. "And oh, Beej, they were so mad. _My dad yelled at me."_ She grew quieter, smaller upon relinquishing this. The more she spoke, the easier it became to get it all out, though her voice was still thick with pain. "Delia basically called me a slut that was going to ruin their reputation." A shadow of Lydia's rare malice made itself known as she tearfully mocked her stepmother and everything the woman stood for.

"And then… then they took my camera. I don't know what I'm going to do," she bemoaned, working herself up at the mere thought of going a full day without her beloved hobby, much less an entire month. "I need it. I know it's stupid and this makes me sound so petty and materialistic, but- but," she held him tight again, muffling the excuse for her raw emotions into his jacket, "it's mine."

After a beat, she was able to work up the bravery to disclose the worst of her concerns.

"Did we have sex?" She finally queried, finally pulling back enough to aim bloodshot honey eyes framed by long, damp black lashes up at him. "I'm not- I'm not mad at you if we did. I was being-" she cut herself off, gaze abruptly shifting down, "and you're you. And it's- it's just… I understand," she finished, snuggling back against him to physically convey what she was having a hard time doing with words. It didn't really matter in the end, as long as he was hers, and she was his.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Fucking teenagers. Betelgeuse is rendered fully out of his league in an instant. Lydia was sobbing, almost rendered paralyzed it seemed with grief. The first thing he could think to do was touch her hair, really, trying to comfort her as she sobbed into her pillow. He thought last night went well. Like, really well. What is this? A knot started to form in his chest until she practically flung herself on top of him. Oh. He pulled his face back into his neck slightly in surprise but wrapped his arms around her, thoroughly bemused.

Oh. Uh oh. She doesn't remember? Ah…fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuu-uuu-ck. You've done it again mastermind. She was that drunk and you barely noticed! Grimacing to himself, cursing internally, he tries to focus on her explanation of what was wrong. As it turns out, it has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the Deetzes. Maybe he dodged a bullet. But he still feels….weird. Is that guilt again? Though, as she describes what Charles and Delia did to her in response to his actions, he growls, grumbling in his throat.

How dare they!?

Protectiveness swims in his thoughts. Possessiveness, too. They called her slut, yelled at her, and took her camera. That was pretty much like yelling directly at him, right? And taking his stuff? No one does that. That rage that was previously contained in a pink cloud of lust is unleashed, now, and his eyes glitter darkly. He holds Lydia tightly, quietly, as she finishes, and he sniffs, not interrupting her. He lights a cigarette instead and takes a moment to reply.

"No," he answers her last question first, "We didn't. We did some other stuff. But not that. I'm gonna make sure yer sober for that." He says it almost to reassure himself. He nuzzles into her hair and resumes stroking it, cuddling her into his jacket. He liked this, certainly. "We had…fun, as far as I could see, you uh. You were into it." He pulls and fusses with the blanket, wrapping her and himself in it with a clawed hand.

He wasn't about to relinquish an opportunity like this. She was vulnerable, and even though he really ought to have been working, this was far, far more worthwhile to him. He might be able to get everything he wants and everything Lydia wants out of this if he plays his cards right.

"Don't worry," he murmurs, "I won't let them do nothin' to ya. Not really. Bubby growls 'cause he's protective of you just like I am. You're not a slut for sleepin' with your husband. I'm the first you've had, that's like the opposite of being a slut, babes. That's like, the most …. traditional order of things, actually, that I can think of," he still considers her a virgin, red tape notwithstanding, and he's sticking to it. Then, he starts poking holes in the ridiculous logic as it churns around in his brain, "Besides, how can you ruin a reputation if they're the only ones who saw you last night 'sides me? To really ruin a reputation, other people gotta see it."

He pauses, and then casually adds in an overtly mischievous voice, whispering into Lydia's ear, "You could always stay with me 'couple days. Make 'em see what they're missin' without you. Run away with me." He chuckles, then, and alternately suggests, "Or I could come over as your date. Let them yell at me, huh? I think they'd shit themselves Lyds. The shrine your mom has in the living room downstairs of my gorgeous snake-face is fuckin' bizarre, we could let them see the real thing again. Maybe she needs a live model."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

"Oh, good," she sighed out in relief at the revelation that they hadn't gone that far, some of her tension releasing as he cuddled his way into her bed, wrapping them both up in the blanket. "Last I remember, uhm… we were on the couch," she finished lamely, too embarrassed to apply labels to their actions.

He said that she wasn't a slut, and logically she knew this was the truth. Her inner feminist raged at the sliver of doubt that remained nagging at her, calling him a liar– and yet there it was. After all, she told him she "needed time" and by the end of their second date, she was choking on his cock like an easy bar skank. She was a horrible hypocrite. Would she have done that with anyone, or just him? Lydia didn't know and probably never would, judging by his fiercely possessive nature, leaving her internal struggle unresolved. Maybe the time she said she needed wasn't to adjust to the idea of a sexual relationship but to adapt to how ready her body was to have one, and the aftermath of the damage left by that newly found hunger.

"They don't want other people to see," Lydia clarified and sunk further into his embrace as his words calmed her, drying her tears, just like she knew they would. Though she was definitely averse to letting him see her so pitiful, the real reason she waited so long after the debacle with her parents to call him back was that she was aware of his penchant for vengeance. Were he to hear Delia and her father ambling about the house, she wasn't sure if she'd be able to reign in his more malicious inclinations. "They want me to cover them up. Delia 'suggested' I wear a scarf or a turtleneck under my blouse when I go to school until they heal." Her voice grew fierce, eyes flashing gold through the shadows and nostrils flaring stubbornly. "But I won't do it and they can't make me."

She loved the marks he left behind. Every time she saw them, she heard his voice in her ear, telling her how "beautiful" she was, how much he wanted her. They were proof of his desire. Lydia would be happy if they never faded and she got to feel that way every time she looked in the mirror.

_"You could always stay with me 'couple days. Make 'em see what they're missin' without you. Run away with me."_

"They probably wouldn't even notice I was gone until dinner time and food doesn't magically appear on the table," she hypothesized numbly, worn out. It was becoming harder and harder to feel hurt by her parents' callousness. The longer one is subjected to certain brands of pain, the easier it becomes to accept it as normal. "Can I really come stay with you? Your roommates won't be upset? I would only be there a day. I have to go to school on Monday."

Maybe she could get to work on straightening up that kitchen. It was a mess. It was no wonder Betelgeuse ended up spilling blood everywhere with cluttered counters like that.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

"Oh," says the ghost, a tinge of apology in his tone but his voice primarily remains as suggestive as ever, "I uh. Got a little enthusiastic after that point, if ya know what I mean. Sorta tried to eat ya from the bottom up." He smiles, greasily.

At her stubborn refusal to cover up the marks he left, the ghost's greasy smile pulls wider, and he bites the very tip of her ear gently with a pleased growl and purrs into her ear, "Atta girl. You give 'em hell ." The predatory thing in his chest was immensely pleased, beyond the fact that Lydia was pleased of her ravished state he was doubly pleased at her misbehavior. There was a wild girl somewhere in there yet, and the ghoul seemed bound and determined to tease it out. Plus, the more upset he could possibly make the Maitlands or the Deetzes the better things were – though he was definitely, definitely not going to let her parents get away with their nasty little punishment. No, he was going to help Lydia misbehave in every possible way and then some - especially with these particular individuals…they've earned his ire. And then, as she describes their attitude about her presence, they simply add to his shit-list.

"I just don't….see," he mutters, annoyed, "How they can just ignore their own beautiful, intelligent, talented daughter like they do. But it ain't surprising, considering they once decided it was a great idea to turn Winter River into some attraction for bored businessmen and use you and your connections to the other side to do it. Then they saw you, when they wanted somethin' from you, and this ain't no different I guess. I mean, from a pure manipulation standpoint, that was amazing , and it absolutely gave me an in, but they almost exorcized our favorite dopes-on-a-rope."

He chuckles, then, "It's a good thing I stuck around. Barb and Adam looked like ghost beef jerky. "

He pulls a clawed hand through her hair slowly as she asks about his roommates.

"Who, those useless sad sacks? Nah, they don't get to tell me what they mind or what they don't. And they like you," he admits, with a roll of his eyes, "A lot. In fact, they're gonna be so happy I might vomit beetle-guts everywhere. It's gonna be gross, Lyds. They're violently disgusting when they're happy. Turns my stomach. But you should definitely stay over. At least, until your parents calm down. Or…school, I guess." As if alighting on some marvelous idea he adds playfully and wickedly, "We can make 'em think you were eaten by Bubb—….nnn, Beelzebub. Then they'll be real happy to see you when you get back."

He's definitely putting snakes in Delia's underwear drawer. A lot of them.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

She shivered when his teeth scraped her sensitive ear, but kept her neck bared for his attention instead of shying away. His array of glowing compliments made her smile. This time, she didn't even blush or stammer out any denials.

"They never wanted a kid," Lydia explained away her parents' neglect, fiddling with a button on his suit. "They only took me in out of guilt, after my mom went to prison- to keep me out of the system. Otherwise, they'd still be living it up in New York right now…" The end of the sentence trailed off and Lydia snapped her gaze back up to his, eager to change the subject. "Can we go now? Just poof there? I don't want to be here anymore."

The atmosphere in the house was so thick from the fight that it was impossible for her to settle. If she hadn't called Betelgeuse, she likely would have been up tossing and turning all night.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

He liked a lot of things about Lydia but one of the things he's decided is very lovely about her is the way she smells. As her head tilts just enough to keep her neck bared, he gently nuzzles at her, almost without thinking, enjoying the sensation and being careful not to irritate the places that he angered with his teeth prior.

"Well I want a kid—," he mutters, and then furrows his brows deeply, quickly correcting the dumb thing he said while distractedly feeling her delicate hands messing with his suit buttons, "Well, I want you ." He grumbles, huffing to himself. Idiot.

"I also think they moved here because your dad had a nervous breakdown. Remember, that's why his boss came here 'r somethin'? Winter River, attraction theme park, pitched by your dad to that shmuck?" He tries to be comforting, here, it seems, "I dunno. I only got pieces while I was hangin' around in that model of Adam's. So it wasn't just you."

As she appears eager to change the subject, he nods, acquiescing to her request. "'Course!" he says, and with a big, loud, snap of his fingers they veritably POP from her bed directly onto the Roadhouse's living room couch as if they had always been there, Lydia still tucked against him just as she was in the bed. He's not going to get tired of this ability anytime soon.

Of course, the two individuals already sitting on that couch had not expected sudden, abrupt company. Jacques LaLean lets go a surprised, elongated girlish shriek, and Ginger the spider joins him, leaping into his arms desperately before clambering inside his ribcage. Jacque is so surprised at this alone that he falls into a pile of bones on the spot, his head rolling until it hits the base of the television set.

Betelgeuse laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs, that high-pitched hysterical, mischievous gleeful laughter. "What!" he yells, still laughing, "You two look like you've seen a ghost!" That sends him into a new torrent of laughter, eventually having to wipe tears from his eyes.

Realizing exactly what had happened after his initial surprise, the skeleton is already grumbling and trying to put his pieces back together bit by bit. Ginger attempts to peel herself out of his ribs, looking mightily put out, squirming huffily from between the bars of his bones.

"Zat wasn't funny, Beeeaatle-joo-ce," Jacques mutters, his grinning skull looking very cross from where it still sits on the floor. He can't see Lydia from his current position, it seems. "You are always doing zis pranking, my bonez, they can only take so much!"

Ginger finally manages to pop from between Jacques' ribs and tries to help putting some larger bones of his together. "Yea Bee-Jay, ya gotta knawk it off with this—-" she pauses, though, and drops Jacques' arm bone in surprise, "Miss Lydia!" she gasps, "Yeh back again!" the little spider seems so, so happy to see her. Like a bright ray of sunshine in a gloomy world.

Betelgeuse's laughter had devolved into chuckling to himself, all the way up until Ginger took notice of Lydia. Then the grossed-out face appeared, and the chuckling waned out into a grumpy silence. They were going talk her ear off.

"Oh! Ze—Miss—Ze Miss Lydia is 'ere again?!" Jacque exclaims happily from the floor, "Ooh, somebodee—please move my skull so that I may see heer, oui?"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

"Oh!" Lydia popped up in astonishment at the commotion, making her way to gather Jacque's skull and pass it over to the discombobulated skeleton. Her limp was much slighter now. "I'm sorry about that. Are you okay, Jacques?"

"Eeet eez so wonderful to be seeing you again, cheri," he greeted warmly and enthusiastically, holding his head under one arm while Ginger worked on connecting the other. "Zis happens all zee time, please do not be doing zee apologizing for zat moule à merde ." For a split second, his pencil-thin, penciled on mustache twitched with distaste, but then he was all toothy grins and friendly eye-sockets again. "In fact, it eez moi who should be doing zee apologizing, for embarrassing you about le hickeys, Miss Lydia."

"No, no," Lydia flushed, ducking her chin demurely, "you were just being a gentleman. Don't worry about it."

"Tut-tut," Jacques interjected, having fully pulled himself together. "Non," he insisted firmly, "you are a proper lady and a proper lady does not keees and tell, and zis is exactly what I made you do. It eez unacceptable and I must humbly beg your forgiveness, minette." He bowed so deeply and gallantly then that Lydia had no choice but to acquiesce to his way of seeing things.

"Sure," she grinned, almost laughing. "I forgive you." This didn't sound in the least bit sincere, but the skeleton seemed placated anyway.

"BeeJay," Ginger finally spoke up, perched atop Jacques' shoulder while she eyed the hickeys in question with displeasure. "Don'tcha know how to show a lil tact? Gawd, ya marked the poor thing up like a horny teenaguh." When she saw that Lydia's living flesh was turning an even darker shade of red under their scrutiny, Ginger showed a little tact herself and changed the subject. "You two stickin' around fuh movie night? I'm bakin' up a batch o' my famous ginguh snap cookies!" The spider proceeded to snap impressively using one of her fingerless, spindly legs. Lydia hadn't seen normal food in the Neitherworld yet and was intrigued to find out if Ginger's gingersnap cookies would have a bite to them.

"I'm staying," Lydia clarified, making the skeleton and spider practically beam. Their obvious pleasure from her mere presence was deeply flattering. It made her forget all about the stinging dryness in her eyes and why they felt that way at all. "I don't know about Beej. I kind of took him away from work. " She turned to him now. He'd sprawled out over the entire couch, robbing anyone else of a place to sit, and was puffing away at a cigarette as per his modus operandi. He appeared deeply, deeply uninterested in the conversation as a whole. "I don't want you to- I don't know- miss any deadlines or anything. Get in trouble with your boss? I don't know how this works. I'll be okay by myself so you can go back to work if you want."

She didn't want him to go, but she wasn't about to ask him to stay and sacrifice money in his wallet- like a spoiled, needy housewife. Such requests reminded her far too much of Delia.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Betelgeuse, meanwhile, had taken the opportunity to spread out and occupy the entirety of the couch indeed, minus the pile of bones at the far end that was currently being re-arranged into a full version of poor Jacque. He had lit a cigarette as mentioned and let the both of them blather on about Lydia, taking a smug bit of satisfaction knowing that he was the one who truly had her.

He vaguely perks an ear at the mention of her hickeys though, that smug satisfaction growing. It didn't reflect on his grumpy, aloof face, but there it was, curling happily around in his belly. As Ginger comes around to fussing at him, he looks at her vaguely. "Well she's sixteen, so that checks out, don't it, Ging? I still got it," he replies dismissively, picking at something on his shirt, "Ain't my fault the girls in this place don't know what they're missin'." He winks sneakily at Lydia then, indicating his level of teasing.

The status of whether or not he would return to work was practically adorable though. He suppresses a chuckle, but a wry little smile tugs at the corner of his lips, unable to stay off his face. He could tell what she wanted, despite her clear intentions of being low maintenance. He flicks the end of his cigarette with a thumb to rustle the ash off. "I dunno," he says, disingenuously, voice manipulative, "Returnin' to work is awfully tempting when faced with eating Ginger's cookies and watching you both drool over my wife. Even she's ready to get rid of me, see? I didn't know y'had such a thing for skeletons and spiders, Lyds."

Ginger rolled her eyes then, "Since when have you evah enjoyed workin' a day in ya life Bee-jay?"

The ghost grunts a swift and smug reply, "Since Juno started payin' me for what she knows I'm good at."

The spider hesitates, dubiously looking askance at the ghoul, "She's….just…lettin' ya—-"

Betelgeuse nods, looking exceptionally pleased with his current negotiated situation. His grim and evilly self-satisfied expression told the spider everything she needed to know…and she stopped asking anything further. But she looked visibly concerned. In reality, Betelgeuse was the boss now.

"But," the ghost adds, benignly, "I guess I'll stick around. Gotta make sure there's no threesomes I gotta worry about while I'm gone."

The skeleton and spider both made exasperated noises in tandem, Jacques muttering under his breath about how the ghost always had to go and make perfectly nice things vile and disgusting . Their upset response makes Betelgeuse smile with satisfaction. Eyeing the clear situation of couch space, Lydia eventually has to physically attempt to move him though, which the ghoul finds impishly delightful. He acquiesces, playfully taking offense. "Alright alright, I'm scootin', I'm movin'—whatcha gonna give me for it, huh? I've abdicated Rome!"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

The gingersnap cookies were delicious, if a bit moody. The film of the night was one Lydia had never seen; older, black and white, starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. The spider was highly critical of Astaire's performance, more than once calling it "sloppy" and "rushed." Jacques was quick to agree with her. Lydia couldn't see what they were talking about, but their opinions were so passionate she thought it unwise to play devil's advocate. This was obviously something Ginger and Jacques did often. After some questioning, she gathered that movie night was a biweekly affair that Betelgeuse was always invited to and never attended. Lydia knew better than to ask him why.

This almost felt like a double date, though she still hadn't been able to ascertain whether or not the spider and the skeleton were romantically involved, or if something like that was even possible for them if they wanted it. They were obviously close. The idea that they wanted to be together that way and couldn't made Lydia very sad, so she snuggled further into her husband's lap, tugging the beetle blanket up under her chin.

He conjured it for her when she asked nicely- as if she would ask any other way. Despite urging him to sit up and make room for everyone, there was only so much room on the admittedly lush, spacious loveseat. Ginger took up mantle in Jacque's ribcage, right around where his heart would be, while Lydia took Betelgeuse's lap of her own volition, without any instruction or direction from him whatsoever. She was learning, too.

His hands were surprisingly subdued, staying outside of the blanket to pet her hair and hold a perpetual cigarette. Occasionally, she would gesture that she wanted a toke and he would hold it to her lips for her in a thoughtless, intimate gesture. Her eyes grew heavier the longer the film went on. Warm, fresh-baked cookies settled pleasantly in her tummy and before the halfway mark Lydia was out for the count. Ginger was sure to remark on this quietly, commenting that she would have to show it to Lydia again sometime so that the girl could _"experience it prawpully."_

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Lydia was soon fast asleep, indeed, tucked against his chest and gut underneath the warm blanket they shared. For being as cold and corpselike as he was, he at least had the fortune to be able to retain heat.

He was a good cuddle, too, being chubby enough, and Lydia's slight form easily melded against him, carefully tucked in surprisingly strong arms. Once Betelgeuse and the others realize she's asleep, he ignores the spider's commentary about re-watching this dreadfully dull film yet again with her later in order to remark he'd better take her to bed.

Without disturbing her, he gathers Lydia up just enough to keep her supported so that he can seamlessly glide her into one of the back rooms, his room. His bed is simply a large coffin, a wilting four-poster capped with skulls on all four points. Plush red velvet coats the interior, worn and frayed. With a wink, it creakingly widens just enough for two and he eases Lydia's prone body into the confines of the interior of it. He idly pulls on some sleep things, silk maroon pajamas from another time, and tucks in next to her blanketed body, pulling over them both a very worn and soft sheet. The ghost has designated himself as the big spoon, and he nearly envelops her slight frame comfortably.

Resisting the urge to touch her like usual, he instead has had some plans concocted for himself to keep busy. Many plans, in fact. He's been concocting them all evening, and he whispers a sigh into her ear, barely audible.

"Daddy's gonna take care of a couple things. Sweet dreams princess…."

* * *

Charles Deetz had been very deeply asleep for the past two hours. He had used what little bourbon he had remaining to knock himself out - the whole situation with Lydia and whatever new beau she had acquired- and over three grand of his precious dollars down some stranger's gullet, his Cubans up in smoke- had left him in quite a state. In order to sleep peacefully, the man had self-medicated quite heavily.

He was peaceful for the moment, and a dream was starting to slowly play out. He was happily sitting with Delia in the living room, sunlight streaming in through the windows. They were laughing about something, and he kissed her. "Get some of the wine from downstairs," dream Delia had suggested, her tone cloying and playful, "I'm just parched Charles!"

Pleased at the promise of a romantic afternoon, dream Charles quickly found himself jaunting down the stairs into the finished basement. Midway down the stairs though, the mood suddenly shifted. The lights dimmed and some turned a bloody red, and the stairs behind him melted away into blackness. He couldn't go back from whence he came, obviously, and his chest tightened. The small staircase itself had taken an ominous turn, and with shaking legs the man proceeded to go down them for what felt like an eternity, far further down than they could have possibly been in reality.

As he almost reached what appeared to be the bottom, he heard distinct noises. Moaning, to be precise, intermittently broken up by gasps. The noises' source was distinctly feminine and young, they were followed by a masculine dark lusty chuckle that echoed in his ears. Something compelled Charles onward, and his foot finally found the pale cream colored carpet of the basement floor in the darkness that seemed to surround him. Thankful to have escaped the strange eerie sensation of the staircase he looked up into the dimly lit den to pursue his search for wine, barely remembered by now, but what met his eyes made his heart leap into the back of his throat in abject horror.

In the dim light of the basement, a very real-seeming and visceral scene was being played out. The first thing that caught his attention was his beautiful daughter, fully naked, illuminated in the low light, her pale skin reflecting it and making her stand out in the gloom. Her small, soft breasts on full display, her back arched, her face contorted with agonizing pleasure. It was from here, clearly, that the moans emanated - and she sobs, softly, the noise making Charles' hands want to rise to his ears immediately, but finding he simply cannot. Her black hair swims on her pale shoulders, and the cause of her current state is behind her, darkened in shadow.

It is the shape of a man, he can see it now. Not a boy, not one of her classmates. Not someone her age, but a grown man. In one of his hands is one of Charles' cigars, the smoke slowly rising from between suspiciously pale and clawed fingers. His other is apologetically shoved up between his daughter's thighs, buried deep into her, every motion eliciting a new pleasure filled noise from Lydia as she straddles his thighs wantonly. A ruby ring catches the dim light.

Charles tries to close his eyes to no avail. He tries to move to no avail. Physically, he found himself entirely trapped and no matter his struggle, unable to look away. And then, a voice from the dark figure.

THAT voice. That voice that had give him nightmares for years after it was first spoken. He knew it far too well, that gritty, nasty malicious tone, nearly slithering from the darkness even without the form of the snake Charles so fervently recalls. He knows him now as the dead man who attempted to marry his daughter. He attempts to scream, to cry out, anything - but no. The scene plays on.

"Been a while, Chuck," Betelgeuse remarks casually, smugly and slowly, twitching his fingers just so and eliciting a whorish noise from Lydia's dark lips. She doesn't seem to notice her father at all, as if he were an invisible witness to the entire scene. "Yer gonna watch what I did to yer daughter last night. Oh yeah," he confirms slimily with dark pleasure, "It was me that wrecked 'er Chuckie boy. She loved every second of it too," his nose wrinkles nastily in the dark, "Specially the parts she can't remember."

At this, Lydia reaches for the bottle sitting on the floor near Betel's legs and swigs it back. The ghost laughs, and it meters out into a low chuckle. The light has found some of his features now, illuminating the pair. The ghoul behind her, dark skeletal eyes in shadow, that unmistakable pale grinning face that Charles will never soon forget. It was him. Charles begged him mentally to stop. Anything but this. Anything.

But the scene continued. It played almost exactly as it had happened, but the ghoul is careful to add some exaggerated details just for Chuck's additional misery. Lydia's poor father was forced to sit through all of it, with some additional commentary as Betelgeuse forced his cock down his daughter's throat over and over. "You have no idea how amazing this feels Chuck. For a virgin, uhnnnnhhh , she is master class at this. You wish the bag o' bones you call your wife was this eager to suck down your dick. When was the last time she even mmmmmmh, mmm …did? Look at how happy she is—-" he hitches there though, reaching the part of their interaction where he unloads into Lydia's mouth, and does so with reenacted aplomb.

They eventually reach the ending, though, the part where he gets just a little too eager, and Lydia becomes a little too forgiving. She begs him, pleads with him, to no avail. Chuck would be crying if he could be crying, and silently his begging matches hers, watching his daughter be overwhelmed by this hideous monster. Once she falls still, Betelgeuse changes the course of events and pulls himself off the couch to address Charles more directly. The Manhattanite could swear he could feel the horror's musty breath as he leaned into his ear to hiss, "This would be terrible if we weren't married, Chuck. I don't want y'thinkin' I'm not an honorable man," this being said after he ravished her, "Y'wouldn't believe horny I am for this bitch though, I figured y'might understand as a fellow alpha male. One more thing," he adds with a dangerous smile, "Don't fuck with her Chuck. Only I'm allowed to do that." With that, Charles woke up in a cold sweat, bolt upright in bed, screaming, howling in anguish into the night. Next to him, Delia slept peacefully on. For now.

* * *

Ah, Delia Deetz. This was going to be much easier and less….intimate, than Charles' torment. He started her off with something similar, though, a pleasant afternoon in the house that she and Charles and Lydia all shared with the Maitlands. Birds are singing, the sun is shining. She's helping Barbara do something creative with the curtains near the front door. All is well, and easy. In a flash though, things change, and they change rapidly. In a stuttering series of lights, the room and house turn grey, and Barbara is nowhere to be seen. Delia's perspective changes – and she looks into the living room from the staircase. Mourning sheets appear on the pieces of furniture and Delia's carefully sculpted art pieces, covering the room in draped white sheets.

In front of the fireplace Lydia shimmers into view, her back to her step-mother. Delia tries to call out to her to no avail – instead finding herself unable to get closer or further away from her step-daughter. Suddenly, who should appear slowly beside her but that horrible, horrible figure she hoped never to see again. They don't mention him or his attack on their daughter, and seeing him re-enter her visual memory is startling to say the very least. She tries to cry out, again, but cannot.

"So what'ya think we'll do with all this junk?" He asks the Lydia beside him. Delia remembers that voice far, far too well. His nightmarish figure has influenced her art since she met him. Betelgeuse .

"I don't know, darling," the Lydia beside him answers cheerily, and reaches for his horrible, pale hand. He takes hers in his easily, far too easily, "But it all really should just be burned , we don't have any use for it. It never sold, the art dealer made that clear. Always lost money on her, he said. Even with all that snake stuff."

"I appreciate the homage ," replies the dream ghost, "But it all never really looked anything like me. I was way freakier than that." With that, poor Delia is shown a montage of them happily destroying her artwork together in creative ways. One of them out in the yard with dynamite, laughing together. It would be hilarious if it didn't cut to Delia's core, and she finds herself silently weeping to herself as the pair re-decorates to Betelgeuse's utterly hideous aesthetic. There's piranhas living underneath the dining room table in a moat that surrounds it. Piranhas . There's stripes on practically everything, hideous, hideous monochrome stripes. All of the parts of the house that she watched Barbara carefully restore are covered in female pin-ups. And worse. So much worse.

Once the entire house has been utterly taken over, she is treated to a scene of Lydia and Betelgeuse kissing passionately on top of the living room coffee table. The couches look like they've both sprouted monstrous levels of hair. One growls.

"It's so nice having the place to ourselves," the striped pajama demon coos, "Now that we're married and your parents are gone, we can do anything we want. Oh, don't forget to get your wedding ring from the dresser in the master bedroom, I know you kept it hidden there."

"I'm so happy, Beej. I love you. I'll absolutely get the ring from the master bedroom dresser drawer now that we don't have to hide anything," comes the cheesy, over-enthusiastic reply from Delia's step-daughter.

They kiss again, and if Delia could faint, she would faint, probably. Instead, she wakes up in a cold sweat, wheezing. Not even noticing Charles missing from their bed, she flies to the dresser drawer in a hot panic, flinging open the top drawer in an effort to search for the ring from her dream. Instead, she finds snakes.

So many, many snakes. Striped snakes. They scatter everywhere, bursting from the top drawer and opening the middle and bottom drawers with their increasing numbers, slithering out like a wave. Delia screams. She screams, and screams, and screams.

* * *

Chuckie and Delia have both been given restless evenings as punishment for their trespasses on him and his. Inside the coffin far off in the Neitherworld, Betelgeuse twitches and chuckles against Lydia in the half-sleep he's used to concoct all this nightmare fuel.

With his two victims taken care of, his focus turns of course to the placid little dreamer spooned against him. She could use some rest after the intense few days he's spent with her, but his reality often doesn't align with anything relating to common sense and this is no exception. He was going to have a little fun, indeed, while he was granting himself some unending dreamy wish fulfillment. Into her subconscious he crawls, easily, sleazing around until he finds what he likes. It's as if he's turned lights on in a proverbial closet marked **SIN** and took a look around.

Oh…so she likes _that_, does she? _Naughty girl._

After spelunking in her brain for just a little while, Betelgeuse collects some of the elements he's definitely going to need to put this little night-time show into production. Was it nice of him to hotwire into the poor girl's unsuspecting mind in order to easily pick and choose some interesting tidbits to titillate her with? Of course not. But he's not nice, and he's about to get a lot not-nicer, if the hot stuff in her little bad girl brain closet was anything to go by.

We're going back, now, to the start of things. Re-writing that nasty little bit of history where he meets a proper, fitting, dastardly-dan sort of end at their initial wedding. The first one, with the maroon tux and pretty red dress, except now he gets to decide what happens. Like a tape re-winding, the visuals Lydia sees in her mind are muddled and backwards right up until the point where the Maitlands attempt to say his name. This is clearly the part where he went wrong, and so this is clearly the crux of the moments he needs to adjust and so he pauses frame there as if going through film. The movie begins again from there in Lydia's mind's eye. He and Lydia at the altar, with the strange disheveled priest. Instead of pulling Adam's teeth out and slamming an ineffective zipper and then iron cover onto Barb's mouth, he simply ties them down both in bolted chairs that lock into the floor. They yell his name. They scream his name. Over and over and over. Nothing happens. The Deetz's are too shocked to do anything from where they're currently entrapped by sculptures. Betelgeuse adjusts his suit, and snuggles Lydia's arm into his own.

This is how it should have been.

The Maitlands are getting fussy, though, behind them – even in Lydia's subconscious they are ready to fiercely fight for her virtue, and after a moment the ghoul is forced to roll his eyes and ball-gag them both. After that, it's just him and his extremely worried looking bride, with a background of muffled complaining. She doesn't look any less confused, frightened and hesitant than she did the first time around, and that's beautiful to him. The priest's warbling voice echoes.

"Do you, Lydia Deetz, take this….man, to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health—"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia was having a lovely dream. Her beloved polaroid was slung back around her neck, where it belonged, and she was snapping away at weeping willows made of liquorice, strolling down a dark chocolate sidewalk that bordered a field of cotton candy. Alongside her sauntered Percy- a skinny little black cat that left her life along with her mother. Delia never let her get another one. She was allergic. They were catching up, quipping back and forth easily like old friends, which they were. He was displeased that she was giving her love away to a filthy dog, but relayed that he was happy for her nonetheless.

Suddenly, Percy stopped in his tracks, bristling, a hiss forming on his imperfectly scarred alley cat face. "There is an intruder here. Beware."

"What are you talking about, Percy?" The oblivious girl questioned laughingly, as though he was telling a joke she didn't quite get, and kept walking on unperturbed. When no one responded, she thought to lower her lens and look back, only to find herself alone. The sky suddenly began to swirl with violent, realistic rain clouds. It didn't even occur to her to run. There was nowhere to go, and Lydia wasn't afraid of a little rain. Or a lot of rain. Which this was. It melted the cotton candy almost immediately upon contact, compressing the endless clouds into a churning blue and pink ocean of syrup. It was beautiful . The trees sunk away into sugary depths, and Lydia was left as a solitary monument on the saccharine landscape.

"Scaredy cat," she derided gently to her now absent friend, and lifted her lens, utilizing the zoom so as to use it like a jerry-rigged pair of binoculars. Someone was coming in the distance. They were clothed just as darkly as she, features obscured by an unyielding hood. Even from this great distance, she could tell that they were impossibly tall and dangerously thin, beyond skeletal. They crossed the swirling sea easily in their thin gondola, traversing closer with measured, patience strokes.

_"Are… you… crossing… over...?"_ A rattling voice echoed from the hood's shadows as he approached. It was deep and slow, sickly, as though the figure was so very tired of doing this. From here, Lydia could see that there was only room enough for two in the boat.

"I don't think so," Lydia answered after a moment's consideration, frowning thoughtfully. "Not yet."

_"Nevertheless…"_ The ferryman continued, unfurling long, bony fingers in her direction expectantly, _"payment… is… due…"_

"Is this okay?" Without hesitation, she handed over her camera. "I'm not supposed to have it anyway."

"_It… is..."_ He began, recurling his fingers and passing the device into a hidden fold in his robe, _"sufficient… Come… child…"_

"Where are we going?" She grinned breathily, instantly taking the ferryman up on his offer of a ride. "The Neitherworld? " She would be happy to visit the topsy turvy realm even in her dreams.

_"Neither… above… nor… below… nor… between…"_ He rasped without the slightest change of inflection or pace. _"Today… you… will… ride… the… passage… of… time … Today… you… go… to… the… past."_

The storm grew increasingly violent the longer they rowed on, Thick candied waters were bleeding red. The sky was positively black. Lydia wished very badly that she still had her camera. Waves of blood lapped at the edge of the boat, rocking it, wetting her clothes. Instead of turning wet-black colored, it brightened like wine splashing onto a white couch. Curiously, she dipped a finger into the vicious liquid for a taste. Nope. Definitely not cotton candy anymore . The ferry was whirling and spinning, caught up in a raging whirlpool. A black and white striped hydra emerged from the maelstrom, just as vicious and hungry as last she saw it. This time, without the burden of fear for others weighing her down, she was able to sit in true awe of its majesty.

"Betelgeuse," she breathed, offering an arm his way for him to take if he wanted. She would much rather let him chauffer her than this cryptic, slow-talking puzzle of a man. Unfortunately, she leaned too far over the edge and quickly tumbled into the sea. For a long few moments, she was sure she would drown, until a familiarly patterned tentacle plunged through the crimson-tinted barrier to save her. When she breached the surface, she was dry, clothed in red, and the arm that saved her had been tainted by the blood as well, painting it off and dirty, more maroon than anything.

_Wait_.

This had all happened before. More than once. Why were they doing this again? Mr. and Mrs. Maitland were screaming for her, but their words were incomprehensible, almost muffled. Her father remained silent, the way he always did when it really mattered , and Delia was whimpering, red-painted acryllics digging into her expensive, brand-name blouse. This was different than then , though. They weren't supposed to make it this far. Something was supposed to happen here, wasn't it? Someone was supposed to save her.

"Do you, Lydia Deetz, take this….man, to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, until death and beyond?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly, so confused, staring at the polished silver band already wrapped around her ring finger. "Something's wrong…" Suddenly, as if searching for her salvation, honey eyes darted through the shadows, seeking out the sheen of a stray beam of light hitting sleek fur. "Where's Percy? I want to talk to Percy."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

It was impressive the way this girl calmly sailed through his hypnagogic dreamscapes, unafraid, easygoing, as if she had been there before and liked it. She gives her camera away easily as collateral, and even attempts to take his arm as a hydra. He hadn't intended that portion to be anything more than a relatively easy transition from her dream into his, but her mind took it and ran with it, and she floated atop like a happy little white boat on a churning brackish sea. He liked that he couldn't scare her. Not really. Because what he eventually intended to do with her might indeed be very frightening to some.

As she bubbles up into the awareness of being in her wedding dress once more, she remains confused. She knows something is off and it reads in her face. As she awkwardly fumbles around her vows again, however, the ghost is vaguely irritated. Every part of her subconscious is still trying to fight him. Why? He didn't exactly want to do this to her yet again, but he growls a rapid, "Percy? You don't need ta talk ta Percy," as his jade eyes scan the room rapidly for any hint of anyone else, but they find nothing. Instead, he clamps a wide hand over her mouth reluctantly and quickly, exasperatedly, imitates her voice for a second time.

"She's just a little nervous, I'll just read her vows for her. My name is Lydia Deetz and I'm of sound mind…you asked me and I'm answering…the man standing next to me is the one I want…yes I love that man of mine."

At least it was true to what happened originally. The priest slowly turns to Betelgeuse, "Then by the authority vested in me….," he says, slowly, voice still low and tremulous, Adam's car would have hit his foot at this moment but it doesn't, "I now….pronounce you….man and wife."

There's a pause where there should have been a sandworm, but there wasn't, and the priest adds, "You may now kiss the bride."

Beaming, having done this whole thing for a third time , Betelgeuse probably looks as though he would have in that moment had he not been sandworm food. Eyes wide, somewhat wild, he turns to a confused and bewildered Lydia and sweeps her immediately into a passionate, wanton kiss. It doesn't really end there, either, the first kiss turns into a second, and a third, that anxious hunger of his building. She always tasted so good, even in dreams, and the ghoul had a very difficult time resisting keeping himself from her.

He lets her take a breath, sort of, after giving her those hungry kisses, in order to pull from the floor their matrimonial bed. Wedding bells still ring as the priest flickers out in a puff of flame and the mattress eases upwards in a foggy smoke. The bed is oversized and planted right next to the viewing public of her still-trapped parents, and the Maitlands. Oh yeah, they were going to absolutely see every minute of this, because that's exactly what they'd always deserved. Plus, he knows, he may have planted this little funny voyeurism kink into Lydia's head without meaning to, exactly. He carries his 'new' bride, still in a state of being absolutely baffled, to their newly made living room chamber and eases her onto the bed with him.

He looks into her utterly confused face expectantly and takes her hands in his, eyes glittering. "Alright babes. It's time t'do what all married couples do and take this the whole way." He councils her very seriously, it seems, "Normally, we'd get in a car, we'd drive off a couple miles t'like, say, a cabin someplace. But I think right here is _just as good_, and I'm a little too impatient to go anywhere if y'know what I mean." The old sleaze is back in his voice, even though it's a perfectly honest and true statement. "It's been 600 years since the real thing, Lyds," he leans in again for another kiss, his voice practically rattling with lust against her lips, "Give daddy a little sugar."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

His passion was so intense, Lydia had no option but to return his hunger; shyly, hesitantly, open eyes flickering back and forth between the captives and the dark pits of his shut tight jade orbs. She knew it was okay to kiss him. Why? She wasn't sure, but she knew. Barbara's muffled voice cried out, fat tears rolling down her flushed cheeks, but Lydia didn't have the proper words to ease her distress. She could hardly ease her own torrent of confused feelings.

"Something's wrong , Beej," she insisted, going small and unheard as he hauled her off to their marriage bed. "This isn't… that's not what happened…"

Her dream-addled mind was trying so desperately to connect the dots. As much as she knew it was okay to let him touch her, she also knew that he could not be allowed to have his way. He was the bad guy. He made her do this. He was supposed to come back later, when she was older, and do this quietly. No muss, no fuss. This was too much, too fast.

_"Give daddy a little sugar."_

She flinched away at the last moment, his mouth catching her jaw rather than her lips. This didn't appear to deter him. If anything, he grew more assertive; growling fiercely, pushing her down into the plush mattress by her shoulders, filthy teeth following the column of her neck until they caught on red lace and could go no further.

"Wait," she gasped as he bit down somewhere that she knew should have hurt more than it did. "Not _here_. Not in front of _them_. I can't- I'm not ready- we're not- _this isn't supposed to be happening- "_

_Riiiiiiiiip_

Razor sharp talons tore right through the surprisingly flimsy tule, from neck to belly, unleashing her breasts to the air. When she moved her arms to cover them, he stopped her in her tracks, wrenching them tight above her head. He looked mad . Why was he mad at her? Even now, his wrath made her shrink, cringe, and bow to his whims.

"Please don't be mad at me," she begged, eyes misting, echoing the phrase she knew she'd uttered to him once before, but couldn't remember when or the circumstances.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

The chuckle that greets her last plea is dark, just like the pits around his eyes. "I think y' are ready, buttercup. Look at ya, yer half of the way undressed," he murmurs, almost into her neck after biting all the way down its length. He draws back if only to soak in her partial nudity after he clawed her straight out of her wedding gown, and his tongue pokes from between his lips playfully, lustily.

"This ain't what really happened babes," he agrees, looking around him vaguely, looming over her, her hands still held tightly down by one of his own, "No, in the real version I got eaten by a sandworm. Barb rode in like a deux-ex-machina and it gobbled me up. I never got to enjoy this properly," a claw travels down between her soft, perky breasts and down her belly. "Can y'blame me for wanting to?" he queries, slowly, but intensely beginning to fondle her with a rough and exploratory hand. He chuckles again, the grin pulling at his lips a greedy, nasty little one. "But….oh I'm very mad. You don't know what I've been through to get here. In fact, I'd say you owe me . And you're being obstinate and methinks you doth protest too much."

He pauses, releasing her just long enough to roll up a sleeve. In an instant afterward, he's hauled her, half-naked, over his lap and drawn up the mounds of ridiculous tulle to expose her underwear-clad rear end to him. One hand grips into her luxurious hair fiercely to hold her in place – despite his ferocity, too, Lydia can feel his thumb caressing the strands underneath it tenderly.

"I think….you need a good lesson on how to be a good and giving wife, darlin'," he says, far too cheerily, his hand arcing high into the air, "No matter where, or when, or why, you should always wanna give yourself to me, especially on our wedding night," the hand lowers, his broad, calloused palm hitting her plush little cheek with a hearty, fleshy _THWUAP!_ He's so strong, and while she definitely 'feels' the impact, it holds with it none of the true sting or any resounding pain that it would as if she were awake. Instead, it's interpreted as a hot, pleasant sort of pressure as if something were bumping her just hard enough. The sound rings true, however and it's loud in the room. "In front of your parents," _THUWAP!_ "In front of the Maitlands," _THWUAP!_ "What I say goes." _THWUAP! THUWAP!_ "We have an understanding, little sugar tits?" _THWUAP!_ His broad hand relentlessly keeps at it until he gets an answer from the poor girl.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

As soon as he said it, she remembered; a sudden thunderous crash, Barbara careening through the ceiling, him pushing her out of the way when he could have just as easily taken her with him. _Oh, God._ He had a right to be mad. They had a deal! How could she let that happen to him?! He deserved to take his pound of flesh from her any way he wanted.

"I'm sorry!" She shrieked as his hand collided against her backside. She knew he was strong. She knew that this was supposed to hurt. Therefore, in dreams, she reacted accordingly. Tears rolled down her face, plush snowy flesh darkened under his assault, and the area between her thighs- hidden beneath the bloody red lingerie he dressed her in- very quickly began to dampen. Very quickly. In fact, her thighs were dripping, moisture leaking from the tight confines of her panties, the gush almost reaching her knees.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry ," she repeated over and over again, sobbing, fragile neck craned back in his brutal grip. When this didn't seem to appease him, she changed tactics. "Yes!" She finally cried out, sounding for the all the world like a pornstar at the moment they were impaled on a fat cock. "Yes, Sir! I'm bad, I'm bad," she mumbled deliriously without any of her previous sensuality, absolute in her conviction. "Whatever you want," she promised tearfully, arching her backside into his abuse, "whenever you want it. You deserve it- Oh, I'm so sorry, Daddy…"

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Satisfied by her last, Betelgeuse eventually stops sweeping his palm onto her backside after she arches it towards him for the last few rounds of punishment. Spanking was utterly pedestrian in the realm of things he's done – and here, it was muted and fantasy based exclusively. All of this, in fact, was fabricated for Lydia's enjoyment, though the ghost couldn't say their tastes didn't align. They did. In many ways, which was quite a pleasant surprise for the villainous ghost. In the days when he first met her, he worked through Dante's Inferno like an old hat and if he can work through an entire ghostly, freaky whorehouse in a single night in order to actually say coherent words to Lydia the first time he saw her, well. This was practically _cute_.

It was also the only way he could give her the full Monte Carlo ghost treatment without actually harming her, and even though sensations are muted in dreams, the acts can go as far as her little brain would have it. And it's having it. Consuming the content he's pushing at a rapid pace, in would seem, as he finds his nice maroon tux dampened by her enthusiastic reaction. And she screams for him, begs so prettily, the noise making the Maitlands and the Deetzes both react with appalled and distraught noises. Their misery is his ultimate happiness, of course, and he growls at Lydia pleasantly, taking her up on her offering of whatever and whenever that he so easily demanded. " Very good, m'little sex kitten. That's what I like to hear…"

He gathers Lydia up into his lap, facing outwards from him, and quickly goes about disbanding the last of the poor wedding dress, ripping it off her like a fluffy tulle shroud and tossing it off the side of the bed. She's left in that lacy red underwear and not much else and he moves them both to the opposite side of the mattress easily. From here, he gives his imaginary parental captors a disgustingly full view, and he settles on the edge of the bed with Lydia firmly in his lap. His clawed hand wraps around her tender throat, just enough to bare it to him and he nuzzles her, sweetly tender, inhaling her scent in an overt display.

"They're crying for you," he murmurs, his mossy lips pressing lightly against her ear, "They're crying because they know I'm far too old for you, and worse, you're gonna be fucked by a perverted old dead guy. Tends to gross most people out, Lyds. But you're the youngest, freshest thing to come my way, and they stopped me from gettin' atcha once the first time I saw your pretty face. They ain't gonna stop me again."

His dirty, smutty clawed fingers drag down Lydia's front, and he chuckles indulgently. His one hand holds her still by her neck, still, his pale and moss encrusted lips travelling slowly downwards to her shoulder in soft, firm kisses. His other hand finds one of her soft breasts, squeezing it in his palm, taking his time, now, to fully and completely tease her to a pitch. She can feel his hips rolling underneath her, moving her body with his, rocking hungrily and feverishly against her pert little bottom. His ministrations to her sweet, succulent youthful breasts are relieved if only to feel him rummaging behind her, and impatiently he appears to be easing his engorged cock out from his wedding clothes. The grip on her neck tightens, and she can feel his length spasm against her ass cheeks and back.

"I want ya to ask nicely, little girl," he grits, nastily, "I know you've learned some good manners along the way, good job on that step-mom and dad. Tell me what you want , Lydia…."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

She would have crumpled with shame were it not for his firm grip on her throat, calloused fingers squeezing just so. She felt so low, so awful, like the worst person in the world. Couldn't she have tried harder to resist him, at least for the benefit of the audience? To be so utterly exposed to the people she loved most in the world, the only people who cared about her- some more than others. Forced to beg for him, unable to control her bodily reactions. It was humiliating. Degrading.

Yet… she wanted more. She knew the right words, the right things to do to complete the fantasy. "I'm sorry," she cried one last time, with shut eyes, unable to watch her watchers as she writhed her hips to match his. Whether she was speaking to them or her captor was unclear. Her knees were spread wide to accommodate him, bent and settled on the mattress while his feet planted firmly on the ground, giving purchase to his shallow thrusts. When she felt him free himself, she tilted her hips just right , arching her back so deeply that even though she was facing the opposite way, the sopping material of her crotch was able to brush his fat cock.

"Please fuck me, Daddy," she pled sweetly, mewling freely in a way her waking form lacked the conviction to. Throwing her head back against his shoulder, she lost herself, spilling out all the filthy words, the deplorable thoughts she didn't have the bravery to speak aloud anywhere but here. "It's so big . I need it so bad . I waited for you for so long. I waited and waited and waited for you to come for me and you didn't." This confession was practically sobbed as she slid her arms back to wrap around his neck, displaying herself beautifully to her disgusted, brokenhearted onlookers. "I thought you were gone forever- or -or you didn't want me anymore. But you do! You really, really do!" Her wet, flushed face broke out into an angelic smile, as though God himself were shining his light on her. "And you're mine! Oh, please make me yours, please, please, please, I want to be your wife."

She was rambling now, far gone in the illusory haze. He wanted her to ask nicely and she delivered- because she owed him and she wanted to. If he wanted her to stop asking, he would either have to gag her like the others, or give her what they both wanted.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

There was the edge, that precipice he had always intended for Lydia and he's hauling her bodily across it unapologetically. He couldn't have planned this better if this was their initial meeting when he was in snake form and she had wailed, "Take me, you scaly sonofabitch!"

It's hard to resist something that's been messing around in your brain, admittedly, going proverbially shopping.

As she arches towards him, his brain fills in what her damp panties must feel like. Though, considering how fiercely he's grinding against her outside of that dream, it isn't far off to reality. She begs, so prettily, in front of all their witnesses, and his face wrinkles in overtly sadistic pleasure. It isn't real, but it is such a delicious, perfect fantasy. As her bravery he snarls, cackling with a surprised and sadistic sort of glee – it was so much better than he could have ever hoped. Her confessions seem to be grounded in some realm of reality, which is absolutely startling to some part of him. She had wanted him, long before this. Long before she called him back, perhaps. Everything she says is a shock after that, too, and it makes him helpless in an emotional tide. Her expression is so beautiful he can't put words to it, and for a moment, she renders him entirely speechless. Even their onlookers seem to be stunned into a shocked silence.

So he does the only thing he can think to do, and that's to sink his teeth into her neck viciously, giving her exactly what she begs him for. Clawed hands tear her sopping panties fully away, and he yanks her by her hips down, impaling her onto his leaking, achingly hard dick. Here, his imagination has to fill in – and it does. It's a facsimile, of course, and the sensations are still those muted dreamlike ones, but it's still sex, and it's still real good . He's precise and unforgiving, though she can probably feel that wild energy simmering beneath the surface, promising this and so much more once they enact this dance as the real thing. He thrusts into her with a hunger not easily abated, a hand moving up to claw its way to fist in her thick hair as she remains arched against him, hanging at his neck. His powers take on a life of their own while he's intensely distracted, and the ball-gags eventually fall from the Maitland's mouths.

"Stop!" Begs poor, poor Barbara Maitland, "She's just a little girl!"

The ghost snarls into Lydia's neck, spurred on by her plea, and his thrusts all the harder, until the wet slap of his hips against her ass ring throughout the room.

"Nah Barb," he grunts, barely able to form a good retort, "That didn't sound like a little girl t'me. Sounds like a woman who knows what she … …nnn, mmm, wants. Don't ya, darlin'?" he pants, his free hand sliding down between the front of her thighs and gently plying her clit. "My wife …"

"This is disgusting, vile – you can't make us watch this anymore—you're hurting her," chimes in Adam, his voice broken.

"Yeah and she likes it," growls the ghost, leaning back just enough to get an even deeper angle. If this was even somewhat close to the real thing, he was going to go wild on her. In reality, though, he was most likely dry-humping her like a horny dog in her sleep. Pathetic. He was a cad, really. "I'm gonna breed her till I feel like stoppin', and you'd be fuckin' shocked at how much stamina bein' dead gives you."

Though, his abilities don't match his threat all too well – even the ghost has his limits. And despite not having a refractory period of note, there's only so long he can last like this, high on greed, high on his own power, fucking beautiful, beautiful and perfect Lydia as hard as he physically was able. He loved her. He loved her in a way that was dastardly, depraved, sick, maybe even, but tapping into her lizard brain had given him a window into her true, unbarred feelings and he liked it there. But like most good things, searingly hot sex dreams must come to an end.

Inside the coffin back in the Neitherworld, the real Betelgeuse had worked himself into a froth, one leg slung over Lydia's hips, fiercely dry-humping her soft, bare ass as much as he could get away with without truly waking her. His slovenly gut was pressed firmly against her back, and he'd been at it for long enough that he'd soaked the front of his silk pajamas. With a lurid grunt muffled into the back of her neck, he climaxes, shaking against her with the ferocity of it, and so too, does he do so in the dream. It is this that wakes him, shaking him out of his half-slumber, pulling him back into the real world. Lydia moans beautifully in her sleep soon after, a noise that the awakened ghost seems to intensely appreciate, but he realizes that, pressed so fervently against her…she's sort of overly warm, and sticky.

He also realizes, in that moment, what a mess he's made of himself, and his pajamas, and the soft velvet beneath him. Disgusting . "Ah….fuck," he mumbles, his voice an irritated whisper. In his perfectly addled state, he forgets entirely that he could simply poof himself into a different outfit, and instead carefully attempts to climb from the coffin as quietly as possible to get a clean change of pajamas.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia didn't awake with a gasp, but with a series of low moans, slick thighs squeezing tight as she came down from her hallucinatory high. What a strange dream. She often dwelt on the night of her almost-wedding, but those dreams were almost always bred of guilt. They depicted Betelgeuse exacting his revenge in violent ways that generally ended with her gory demise. The wedding would never finish, and there was never any love. Just pain and sorrow and regret.

This was different. Yes, he was exacting revenge of a sort, but the emotions were all wrong- and so deliciously right. She tried very desperately to hold onto every detail of the wet dream, but they were already slipping away from her the further she drifted into consciousness. She couldn't remember the things he said or the things she said, but she remembered the tone. The illusion was painted in a crimson light in her mind's eye; hungry writhing limbs and growling, hissing taunts courtesy of her husband aimed at their captive audience.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why would she imagine something like that? The scene depicted was closer to what Adam and Barbara probably thought would have happened than anything based in reality. Lydia was certain Betelgeuse respected her enough to not degrade her so completely… but did she want him to treat her like that? She shuddered at the very idea, but couldn't deny the hedonistic appeal of the fantasy.

Having awoken fully at this point, Lydia quickly realized that she was lying in an unfamiliar bed in a foreign room. It was too dark to make out anything other than the ghastly pallor of her husband's naked chest from the other side of the room. That was an exotic sight. Lydia had never seen so much of him at one time before.

"Beej?" She croaked, voice laced with dream dust, stopping him right as he was about to pull a long-sleeved pajama top over his head. "Wait," she requested, beckoning with sluggish limbs, "come here."

Once he was within touching distance, she reached for him, extending an arm from the confines of his coffin- it took her a moment to realize exactly what she was sleeping in- to curiously, gently rake her nails through the generous line of hair that ran from his chest, down his belly, and into his pants. As before, bits of moss and mold flaked off, but Lydia was nonplussed.

"I had a weird dream," she disclosed in an explanation for her waking state, tugging gently on his hand to indicate that she wanted him to climb on in and give her snuggles. "About our wedding night- the first one. This one wasn't like the others though…"

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

"Beej?" came the bewildered voice from the bed. Betelgeuse turns to peer over a shoulder, the room dark, right as he's about to put on a secondary shirt. He is indeed illuminated by the half-light that Neitherworld nights possess shining through the strange and peculiarly angled gothic style window, his pale white skin tinted dusky blues and purples by the evening's weird gloam. Lydia stops him from his endeavor to cover himself, surprisingly, and with a huskily murmured, "Sure," at her request, he makes his way over to his bedside.

She reaches for him, and the sensation of her hand fearlessly pulling through his tangle of wispy blond chest hair and the trail that leads down his front that older men tend to sport sends a quiver throughout him. No living girl besides this one would probably consider any of his ghoulish, rotting features an asset. And here, he is out of his league yet again. When one's entire state of being is based in malevolence, and further, being as unappealing and disgusting to the living as possible, it always comes at a surprise when the reaction isn't either of those things. Bits of moss and mold flake off, and she doesn't flinch away. She hasn't yet, either, when they've fallen away from his face at her touch. The dead don't mind these things, of course, but it isn't with them that he prefers to mingle. There's a reason he's kept his clothes on as much as possible. One, to stop him from really behaving badly - it hasn't actually stopped him from much of anything as it turns out- and two, because he truly wasn't sure if she was ready for his full corpse-like visage. She's seen the important parts anyway, right?

He swallows, possibly audibly, as she attempts to pull him back into the coffin. "Weird ah….weird dreams huh?" he mutters, distractedly, and climbs in next to her, shirtless, tucking himself back up against her as benignly as possible. A sudden thought makes its way into his brain, which is one: he's never had a girl in his bed like this, all….cuddly and whatever…. and two, which slams home like a lightning bolt from her dream: she legitimately likes him. For real. This isn't a marriage of inconvenience, and it never was. "Once, Lyds," he says, somewhat interrupting her as that realization hits home, "I had a dream that I had sex with my grandmother. I was like, fifteen I think. It was totally fuckin' traumatic," he laughs, nervously, "It's one of the only things I can remember about being alive, bangin' that old lady. Isn't that stupid?" he pauses, then, and asks perfectly innocently, "What did you dream about our wedding? The uh….the first one or the ….the second one?"

A third thought crosses his mind. She's dreamed about the wedding before. And he doesn't know how to feel about that either, but something is twisting in his chest and he doesn't like it. Not one, tiny bit.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia was too sweet to mock him about his embarrassing admission like anyone else might, though it definitely gave her an in. Rarely did he talk about his living life and she wasn't about to do anything to deter him from further sharing. Briefly, she attempted picturing him as a living man before giving up entirely. The stripes, the mold, the deathly pallor… they were all so intrinsically entwined with his image that trying to imagine him as anything else was nothing short of impossible. Contented by his embrace, she snuggled into his thickly muscled bicep, curled an arm atop his chest, and refrained from nudging her slippery thigh over his legs the way she wanted to. After all, the pants he wore were surprisingly clean.

"The first ones," she corrected tiredly, yawning. "Multiple. They… they weren't good . The night I called you back… that wasn't the worst one, I guess, technically… but it was pretty bad. It hit me the hardest." Obviously. It hit her hard enough to attempt suicide via inter-spectral marriage. "When the sandworm came, you took me with you." This was imparted without an ounce of fear. Just solemn resignation, a defeated soul bowing down to her ultimate fate. After several beats of silence where neither of them spoke, her voice filled the air again, as wispish as before. "But when I woke up, I wasn't afraid for me. I was afraid for you. I felt.. like- like I'd just committed a murder and gotten away with it. It was awful." A knot formed in her throat, but her eyes remained dry. Lydia was too drained to display any extended depth of emotion. "I never wanted to feel that way ever again. I needed to know you were okay."

In the wake of her torrid nocturnal phantoms and Betelgeuse's own shameful confession, a tap of honesty had been opened in her. There was no reason to lie to him, not anymore.

"The one tonight was… good ." Blood flowed to her cheeks, inflaming them. He could probably feel the flesh burning against his bare chest. "I've never- ever- had a… a wet dream before. I've had nightmares about… what happened to me," her voice quickened imperceptibly, hoping to gloss over the subject but still give the whole truth. "But that's- that's obviously different, I shouldn't have even brought it up." Frustrated, she burrowed further into him, hiding. "We finished the wedding, which never happens in any of my dreams… but then… and you have to promise not to make fun of me or use this against me ever, promise?" After receiving confirmation, she took a deep breath and continued. "Okay. Afterward, you… we… uhm… had-sex-in-front-of-Adam-and-Barbara-and-my-parents."

The last was said in a breathless rush as she buried impossible closer, seeking protection both from him and against him.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

The ghoul sort of makes her decision for her, a little, and cuddles her up close enough that if she did sling her leg over his thigh it would hardly have added or subtracted from the cleanliness of his pants. He might also be attempting to encourage it, but it's hard to tell. He lived in practical squalor, and while she was always polite and fastidious, he was fully the exact opposite.

She was, in her entirety, pure to a fault – and the ghost is slowly coming to realize how much of this is simply who she is. He listens to her describe her nightmares involving him, and it actually sort of hurts. How does she always know the perfect place to tear at his heart?

_"I never wanted to feel that way ever again. I needed to know you were okay."_

Ouch. Here, the ghost replies, because that was entirely a lot to unpack. And knowing what he knows now…he simply frowns above her head. He doesn't deserve her. He knows that, now. Fully, completely, like a final sentence handed to him by a court. Shit .

"No, babes," he mumbles into her hair, stroking the ends of it gently along her back, "That….y'couldn't have done anythin'. Look, no one expects a….fuckin'….sandworm ridden by your adopted ghost mom. Least of all me! I mean, look, I tried to keep them from stoppin' me anyway I could, the gags didn't work, I sent Adam into the model but he drove into my foot….I zapped Barb into sandworm land, and she came back with one with my fuckin' name on it. I mean, I ….I'm gonna be honest with ya babes, I pro….probably…. probably got what was comin' to me for tryin' to abscond with their teenage daughter."

He pauses because admitting that was supremely difficult and he adds, "I wouldn't take you with me. I wouldn't'a done that to ya. I was …. I was angry. I still ….sorta am, but not with you, Lyds. Never with you, really. 'Sides Sandworms are a living hell but I've taken 'em on before. I hate 'em, but if you stick yourself right in the back of their smelly, sticky gob and kick 'em about partway down, they throw you back up. And then you …. You just sort of run, because nothing else seems to work—-while they tear your tux to shreds—and you wind up in the Waiting Room again after it eventually does catch you, and Juno's given you a joke number, because your pain is funny to her. And then you meet a split-in-half girl who's hot but who hits you fer bein' curious and then a head-hunter shrinks your head into a tiny peanut but it makes your shoulders look awesomely huge—" His voice is a bit misty here as if remembering something wistfully. He comes back after a pause and adds, "Er, the point is I'm kinda hard to kill. Like a roach. I wanted to come back, baby, I did. But once the Waiting Room has ya, there's….no comin' out till you see a caseworker. Mine is Juno, same as the Maitlands. She thinks she has a sense of humor. She does not have a sense of humor. I was demoted to a Class 9 Malevolent Poltergeist down from a Class 6 Malevolent Spirit and sent to my crypt for most of eternity."

He tucks his head as if looking down at the top of her head. "You …. saved me from that, actually, when y'called me back. And when I showed up I was an asshole because I was ….I was furious. I thought you were lyin' when you said you wanted me there. But you weren't. And you still had the ring," he closes his eyes briefly. He drifts off talking momentarily, then, unable to let her in on the fact that he knows now. She's always wanted him; even when she hesitated setting him free on the cathouse roof, even when he used her dying adoptive parents as a bargaining chip to get at her. Even as a horrible, perverted snake monster which almost killed her father. How could this be?

His answer comes in the form of the dream they had both shared, and he does her the favor of not pushing the what happened to her point whatsoever. It was very, very obviously different. His eyebrows raise though, at the adorable way she describes what he absolutely did to her in her dream, practically into his chest. The guilty thing in his stomach dissipates somewhat to be replaced by that evil, purring thing when he gets away with something. She liked that, did she? He chuckles, his laugh midway between something genuine and a snicker, because he can't help it, and he squeezes her close. "Mmm," he replies, breezily, "Sounds hot to me. Were they into it? I'm pretty sexy. Barb thinks I'm sexy. It's weird, she's married to Adam but when we first met? Man, she came onto me like woah, it was crazy. I think I have that…that…" he snaps his fingers, "…animal magnetism or somethin'." He stops in his babbling to dip his head down at her again, his hips giving a little push against her and he grins, wickedly, his voice teasing, leading her on playfully, "I take it you liked the sex, though? Enough maybe to….not stop?"

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Lydia had been of the opposite frame of mind for too long to accept his surrender without a fight. "That's not true," she insisted, fiddling with his chest hair. "You didn't deserve that. Nobody deserves that. Besides, if I- if I hadn't chickened out , or if I'd taken a minute to explain, make them stop…" She trailed off, letting the 'what if's' go unspoken, eventually leaning up to brush a kiss across his cheek before settling back into place; eyes closed, the barest smile turning her lips. "But I'm glad you're okay."

At his bold-faced fabrication of Barbara's initial impression of him, her face twisted into a cross between a scowl and a grin. "You liar," she derided, poking his ribs firmly as punishment. "She did not . While we're taking a vacation from reality, I bet Adam extended a permanent invitation to poker night too, right? God, you are so full of shit, it's a wonder your eyes aren't brown. 'Were they into it?'- are you freaking kidding me? It was torture! I can't believe I dreamed something like that!" Amused, she broke into a fit of nervous giggles.

"Of course I liked it, dummy," she admitted, leaning into his slight bump of the hips, but not quite returning it. "It was my dream. Though, it wasn't exactly… uhm…" Consensual. "Let's just say I needed some convincing, and you were… persuasive. Ugh ." Frustrated and embarrassed, but unwilling to hide the truth from him any longer, her thoughts came out unfiltered. "What's wrong with me?" It was a rhetorical question, spoken with a smile and meant as a joke, but there was a layer of pain dragging it down. "I can't just have normal sex dreams and normal crushes. No, every aspect of my life just has to be freakish, doesn't it? Oh, well." Sighing in resignation, she absent-mindedly scraped her nail across his purple-gray nipple, exploring the finer details of his nudity freely and without shame. "Normal is over-rated anyway."

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

That was probably one of the most genuinely sweet things anyone's ever said to him that he can ever remember. Stockholm Syndrome notwithstanding, he was genuinely not the villain in her story. And that was going to take some time to digest, for certain – the light brush of a kiss on his cheek made him smile in the dark. He lets that particular argument drop, but potentially she had wanted to say her vows. She may have started to say "No, let me explain—" but he had cut her off at "No," because letting her say anything beyond that seemed dangerous at best, he fully expected her rejection in that moment, not her support.

At her protest regarding Barb's behavior, he nearly cackles at her, though. "She did, she so totally did. You can ask her. She planted a big wet one on me the second she saw me. I was like, woah lady, I don't even know you. Nuts, right? Adam seemed pissed. I was just tryin' to be a professional," he grins in the dark at her laughter, though, taking her playful insults in happy stride, adding, "I dunno babes, I can believe you dreamt somethin' like that. We're both a little strange."

At her further description, too, a small thrill runs through him. A sleazy sort of self-important smugness radiates from his voice. "I was persuasive huh? I can be pretty persuasive so I've heard. Your subconscious digs me talkin' you into things, at any rate," he makes a more throaty noise than intended as her fingernail drags over one of his nipples unexpectedly, and she can probably hear him smack at his dry lips. He shifts against her, entirely too focused on her touch suddenly, "I told you this being dead thing was too weird," he grunts, a hand curving around her very bare bottom underneath that shirt of his as if trying to be stealthy. He gropes there a moment, and then gropes a little harder in 'sudden realization', "Oooh. Babes, I dunno about normal but you're all…. sticky . The bone-ified BJ dream-treatment really musta turned your crank. I can help, yanno. I've heard I'm good at making— errr, cleaning a mess."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Her hand fisted gently in his chest hair when his own found her backside, squeezing insistently. Lydia was very quickly learning that this was his favorite place to grab her. At his suggestive offer to help "clean her mess" , she stiffened just so, the sore muscles between her legs simultaneously salivating at the prospect, and yet going rigid in protest. She wasn't sure she could handle another attack like his last.

"I don't know if-" she cut herself off, not wishing to deny him. "I mean, you can… If you want , but- but it hurt last time. I bled," she confessed very quietly, so much so that he probably had to strain to hear it. "I don't think I can take that again unless… unless you were soft with me."

Her cheeks were so red, they were surely glowing through the shadows. As far as he had pushed her boundaries in their short courtship, she still was not accustomed to speaking so openly and honestly about such lewd topics. Nevertheless, he needed to know the truth of her injured state before moving forward. If that meant pushing through her shame, then that was what needed to be done. "I got all the time in the world for you, baby," she remembered him growling in her ear, impaling her hard and slow on his hand. He was intense and hungry. He said he could be soft and patient, but Lydia wasn't sure if this was just another lie. Whether the deceit was meant for her or himself was unclear.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

"I can be soft," comes the readily agreeable, greedy reply, "Yer such a horndog, Lyds."

The last is said with horrific delight as if it were she that was the problem here and not Betelgeuse who hurt her and molested her in her sleep when they both knew the exact truth of the matter. Carefully, the ghost squirms within their tight confines just enough to start working his way with lusty, sloppy, slow kisses down the side of her face, her neck, and further. He makes gross and overly horny noises under his breath as he slowly unbuttons her shirt, interspersed with evil little snickers to himself. His little night-time occupations couldn't have gone any better, and orchestrating yet another response from her sexually feeds his ego like nothing else. His worries about her sincere feelings for him are shoved happily aside in lieu of this .

His head dips between her breasts, his wild tangled hair tickling at her skin no doubt, and he takes his time around those, pressing them as petite as they were to his stubble and lathing his tongue across each one indulgently. Her body was perfect , every inch of it, and every time he thinks that's enough it never, ever seems to be. Clawed hands rasp gently down her lithe sides to narrow hips as he eases his way slowly but insistently down her creamy skin. He eventually reaches her lower belly, nuzzling into the soft skin there, his shoulders working him between her thighs and spreading them for him. He laps at her inner thighs, cleaning the sticky, delicious remnants of her wet dreams from them.

For once, his mouth is warm , steamily, lustily warm, and it eventually meets the folds of her sore, abused and yet still excitedly damp flesh hungrily. This time, he is indeed gentle as promised, not even pursuing the temptation of pushing into her, his soft, somewhat chubby cheeks pressed happily between her smooth thighs. He doesn't restrain her, either, letting her respond naturally this time around, curious as to what she'd do.

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

Each of his filthy noises- evil chuckles and hums of approval- was met with a soft gasp or a sharp, breathy moan depending on the sensitivity of the area lathed with his attention. His teeth dared to brush against snowier, unblemished sections, but they were sheathed when tending to bruised flesh. She melted beneath him, easily parting her legs for him when he came to shoulder them apart. Once his tongue met her folds, she tensed for just a moment, almost as if she expected him to go back on his word. Luckily, he did not. He remained as gentle as ever despite his restrained hunger. Rather than anchoring her down, his filthy talons dug into the lining of his coffin, threatening to rip it in his resolution to allow her freedom of movement.

Tiny feet came to rest on his shoulders for purchase. She spread her thighs wide for him, both to offer better access and show off just a little. Though she'd fallen off in recent years due to the lack of means available in Winter River, Lydia had spent much of her life training in the art of classical ballet. She both loved and hated the delicate, arduous style of dance for various reasons, but at the moment, she was grateful for the experience. It left her quite flexible . Had her knees not been obstructed by the edge of his coffin, she would have been able to keep easing them apart until they hit soft velvet.

Oh, he was so good at this.

He made out with her pussy slowly and passionately, like it was her first kiss all over again. Gently curved hips rocked in tandem against his mouth, setting an excruciating pace. When she wanted more, she arched into him and pressed down with her feet at the same time, giving added pressure to the sweet, slick friction. Fearless, undaunted hands tangled in his hair, but they didn't pull or push. They massaged, scratching gently at his scalp, petting and wordlessly praising him for all the wonderful work he was doing.

The speed of her rocking inevitably quickened as that familiar burn crescendoed in the center of her being. "Oh!" She gasped after a particularly acute stroke of his talented tongue, the muscles in her legs straining and shaking. Still, her undulations were sensually smooth, pale arms releasing him to fly above her head and grasp the edge of his coffin for stability. She moved like a belly-dancer on her back, twisting her hips into his mouth with beautiful flowing undulations; up and down, side to side, circles, and masterful figure-eights.

Inevitably, she burst for him, making sure to half-muffle her cry of euphoria into the pillow beneath her head. It wouldn't do to let Jacques and Ginger hear her screaming desperately from his room at ungodly hours. Their opinion of him would never improve.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

Woah. Okay. He had no idea Lydia was that flexible. As her legs spread out for him, blossoming, she can probably see his expression between her legs and it's …. Impressed and surprised to say the least. That's going to make for some interesting, and fun experiences later on, of that he is quite certain. He is eagerly listening to her noises, responding to her body language intently – finding quickly which motion, which swipes of his tongue, what sort of pressure elicits the best and loudest moan. She tasted heavenly, and every part of her was so soft and alive. Nothing could match this.

And she was good to him, too, pushing and guiding with her sweet little feet, the sensation of which on his shoulders was delightful. Her hands felt good, too, pawing through the rotten mess of his tangled rat's nest of hair. She twisted, then, and arched and he followed her dance gracefully, easily, his own snake-like undulations matching hers, still as surprised as ever. She was strong, and she was open to him. If he wanted to have her, then, he probably could have…but he remains as ever, tempered by her unspoken promises. _Soon_.

It isn't long before he has her at her peak and she climaxes yet again for him, and he sees her through it with unusual grace and care, easing her hips back down onto the velvet of the coffin. "That's my girl," he mutters, his voice rough and heady. Part of him knows she had employed the pillow for politeness sake, but most of him greatly desired his roommates to hear her. He never brought his women back home out of some remnant of propriety, or perhaps hastiness on his part, but this was much, much different – it might even scare the roommates off a bit, which would be pleasant to see.

He sighs pleasantly and settles his large, unkempt head onto one of her thighs. "You didn't tell me you could do that kinda crazy bendy thing," he half-way mumbles into her hip. "Yer always surprising me, Lyds."

* * *

**_Lydia's P.O.V._**

"I can do the Chinese splits, too," she boasted, breathless and limp while he used her thigh as a pillow. She adjusted accordingly, slipping her knee from the wooden edge to rest on soft velvet. "… and put both my legs behind my head." Lydia didn't brag often, or ever. It seemed Betelgeuse had done a fair job of boosting her sad little ego with his continuous, glowing praise.

That was nice. Calm, loving, and gentle, sweeter than any of the other things he had done to her. Not that she didn't enjoy those experiences too, but this was different. Lydia often overheard girls her age lamenting how their boyfriends never wanted to do what Betelgeuse had now done to her twice in one day- each time vastly different from the other; an attack, and then an apology. For several long minutes, they laid there, silent and motionless, aside from Lydia's breathing. Then, she sat up on her elbow to shuck his unbuttoned shirt from beneath her over the edge before collapsing back into the cushions, entirely nude. The time for modesty- another overrated concept, Lydia decided- had passed.

"You're really… really good at that," she gifted him with some praise of her own, yawning, idly stroking his wild mass of hair like he was a lazy cat who had taken up residence in her lap. The urge to thank him for bestowing yet another orgasm plucked at her but she ultimately determined that saying such a thing would only cheapen it. Instead, she offered her services in return.

"Are you… okay? I mean, do you… do you want me to take care of you? I'm pretty sleepy, but I'm not… not that tired." The drowsy way she husked her proposition- yawning, rubbing her eyes- belied the lie in that statement.

* * *

**_Betelgeuse's P.O.V._**

"Satan in glory, girl," the ghost mutters at her braggadocio, licking at his lips. He croaks out, "Ya tryin' to kill me again, or what? I am gonna have to see you do that….at some point, though."

And then they fell quiet, and his thoughts swirled and had some time to process things. Sort of. It was still a sort of panicked jumble in his head in many ways. Now he had something to lose. He's never had anything to lose before. Nothing, zilch, nada. It clawed at his chest and made him shift against Lydia's thigh uncomfortably.

He's distracted from this, though, as he notices his shirt flying over the edge of the bed. He looks up, only to see her breasts towering over him briefly like the sweetest fruit before she flops onto her back. She was fully nude. In his bed. And she had just described how flexible she was exactly. "Oh come on— " he moans, in a half-whisper to himself. He grits his teeth and immediately rummages around his pajama pants for a cigarette as she compliments his abilities, feverish for something to keep his shaking hands occupied as her slim hand delves into his hair. He cuddles closer to her against his better judgment at her touch. She was so warm. So…. available .

"I've only gotten five-star reviews so far babes. But it's always good to know the ole Beetle-deetle magic still works," he breathes, almost wheezing. He finally gets the fucker lit between trembling fingers and takes a sharp, deep inhale that nearly consumes half of the long stick, huffing out a hot breath of thick smoke. He passes the rest of the cigarette upwards to her, and his eyes close slowly as she makes her return offer, as if he'd been stabbed with a dagger and is now slowly dying.

He was going to have to turn down a blow-job from his gorgeous wife that was so, so, so good at blow-jobs. He could cry. He might. He might cry, actually. This is a god damn tragedy.

"No," he practically chokes through his teeth, "No babes you…..you need to r-r…rest. I'll be just….just fine. This was just for you. Just….just for you babes. Besides, I have to…." He licked his dry lips, shuddering against her briefly as he struggled through this, "….g…go back to work probably. I'll stay here till ya fall asleep, and then I'll make my way back to the….to the Patels….there's water…on the bedside table…..Jacque and Ginger will be around when you….wake up…."

_Someone needed to give him a god damn award for self-control. Two. Fifty. Maybe make him King of Self Control and shower him with tits and money. God. Fuuuuuucking. Daaaaammit._


	10. The Inferno

**A/N:** The majority of this chapter takes place from Lydia's perspective, so instead of breaking it up by P.O.V. we have distinguished which section was written by **TheArtOfSuicide** and which was written by **guidebetelgeuse**.

* * *

**_TheArtOfSuicide:_**

True to his word, Betelgeuse didn't leave her until she descended back into dreams unencumbered by mischievous visitors. When she awoke, there was a light filtering through the curtains that was just a bit _too_ orange to originate from any sun. Almost immediately, disorientation faded away and she remembered where she was and why she was there; naked, cold, and needing to pee. With quick, impatient movements, she ambled out of his coffin, donned his bathrobe, and tried a door. She really was not looking forward to using his filthy bathroom, but the call of nature must be heeded. To her astonishment, she found the previously disgusting room clean. The tiles sparkled so clearly she could see her reflection, not a speck of dirt or grime to be found on pristine porcelain. There was a sticky note attached to the mirror written in a barely legible chicken scratch that could only be Betelgeuse's script.

_Sexy Bendy Little Sugartits–_

_When u wake up the spider & bonehead will probs make u _food._ Don't eat from worm bucket in _fridge_ that's mine. I fixed bathroom for u. Soap in shower probably not the best but I don't remember what that's like. Hang around for as long as u want/can. Check dresser 4 good surprise. See u later. XOXO_

Instead of signing it with his name or initials, her husband had drawn a little cartoon beetle with heart eyes. It was clutching its chest, swooning, overcome with emotion. Lydia swooned a little herself and tucked the sticky note away somewhere she wouldn't forget it. She would have to keep it for the photo album she intended to dedicate to him. The soap he referred to didn't come in plastic bottles, but glass mason jars. It looked homemade, like a bored housewife's DIY project. Briefly, Lydia wondered if he stole it from the Patels, or the live people haunting their house, before dismissing the thought. It was a sweet gesture and she wasn't about to dissect it.

The "surprise" the note alluded to almost made her cry. He got her a camera. An expensive, digital, top of the line piece of equipment. It wasn't her beloved polaroid, but something else entirely. This was professional grade, still in the box, as though he walked into a store and bought it just that morning. It took everything in her to resist tearing it open and playing with it right that second. She had plenty of time, and there other things that deserved her attention. Now that the bathroom was properly cleaned, Lydia could see that he had a jacuzzi tub, like the kind in Delia and her father's master bath. With this discovery, she indulged. She drew a bath, garnishing the water with some oil from one of the jars that smelled like cupcakes. Around the porcelain perimeter were several short-stemmed candles stolen from his room. He had a ton of them. Why? Lydia was sure she would find out one day.

The brown sugar scrub smelled delightful and she lathered it generously across her skin. She spent the entire morning in his tub; lazing, indulging, floating on a cloud of pleasant emotions. She felt so loved. So cared for. She never wanted to leave, not if this was what their life together would look like. Alas, it was a beautiful fantasy. Eventually, she was able to drag herself from the steaming waters and redress in another one of his shirts- the maroon silk top she'd stopped him from wearing the previous night. Like the other, it drowned her. Unable to resist the urge anymore, she tore into her new camera, settling down at his desk to play and tinker until she was confident she understood how it worked. Then, she grew a backbone enough to emerge from the room. Ginger was found in the kitchen, four of her eight arms hard at work, each holding a different utensil and performing a different task.

"Do you need any help?" The spider, well invested in her cooking, jumped in fright at the sound, spilling a pot of something slimy, green, and moaning all over the counter. "Oh!" Lydia jumped to action, grabbing a towel to help sop up the mess. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you."

"Honey, don't worry about it. This is nothin'. Ya hungry? BeeJay said ya might be. There's some leftover cookies ovuh there," she gestured across the room with a free arm, shooing Lydia away so she could take care of the rest of the mess on her own. Reluctantly, Lydia acquiesced, settling down on a bar seat and carefully picking at one of the gingersnap cookies. Given time, their hot temperament had cooled some, and they didn't attempt nipping at her fingers like the previous night. "Is that all Beteljerk gave you to wear?" Ginger inquired to Lydia, a mild scowl turning her fuchsia lips. "JACQUES!" She yelled out suddenly without giving Lydia time to respond. "COME WATCH THE STOVE FUH A MINUTE, I NEED TO MAKE MISS LYDIA SOME NICE-UH CLOTHES!"

_Make?_

"Oui, oui, mon amour," Jacques answered obediently, sweeping through the entryway to take over for Ginger. "Good morning, Miss Lydia! We are so pleased to be having you here. Did you sleep well?"

"Like a dream," Lydia replied smilingly, amused by their antics. "You really don't have to bother, Ginger. I don't mind wearing his shirt. It's comfy."

"Well," Ginger frowned, unconvinced, and ushered Lydia from the room, "I mind. Besides, I have just the thing fuh you! S'been awhile since I've had a model as cute as you ta work with."

The girl blushed, deeply flattered, and silenced all further protest, allowing herself to be pulled through a door that read Ginger in bright pink glitter, like the kind that could be seen backstage at a show belonging to a diva. Everything in her room was pink; dark pink, light pink, fuchsia, magenta, coral, rose, peach, and salmon.

"Wow," Lydia commented politely with large eyes, working very hard to hide her distaste. Claire Brewster would love it in here.

"Let's see," Ginger took a moment to look her up and down, "what're ya, four foot ten? Four eleven?"

"Nine," the girl confessed smallishly, blush deepening.

"Precious," the spider smiled, oblivious to Lydia's embarrassment at her size, and proceeded to flurry around her, rapidly taking her measurements. "Perfect. Okay, now sit tight fuh just a minute while I work my magic." She gathered a bundle of black fabric from her dresser, then red, and went to work. She moved with supernatural fluidity, weaving the fabric together with talented inhuman limbs. "Try this," she ordered, tossing a pile of black to Lydia before beginning work on the red fabric now. The girl slipped behind the old-fashioned changing screen and worked herself into the gifted garment. It was a bodysuit. It encased her from neck to wrist to ankle, an expertly concealed zipper running down the front. The fabric was warm, but not overly so, and quite breathable, and hugged her like a second skin.

"Thank you," Lydia breathed in wonder as she stepped out from behind the screen, unable to stop running her hands across the soft fabric.

"Don't thank me yet," Ginger smirked, satisfied with her work, and handed the girl another bunch of textile. This one was red, silken, and boasted a delicate spiderweb pattern. "Now, you can thank me." It was a hooded poncho, so light and airy Lydia could hardly feel it over the bodysuit. The ends draped down to the ground both in back and front, completely hiding her figure from view, though glimpses of her silhouette could be glanced from the sides. "Lovely, absolutely lovely. I've outdone myself. Now, come come, lemme do somethin' with all that hair o' yours."

Lydia, now completely confident in the spider's abilities, was content to let herself be used as a dress-up doll and obediently sat before the spider's vanity. Distantly, she realized that Ginger didn't have a reflection, but was too mesmerized watching her hair move by itself in the mirror to question it. The Maitlands and Betelgeuse didn't have a reflection, so this told her Ginger was definitely a dead person. Why, then, was she a spider? Why did they even have mirrors down here if they didn't work? Within minutes, Ginger had worked most of her hair into an intricate updo held in place by a rich violet ribbon.

"There. Perfect."

* * *

**_guidebetelgeuse:_**

It wasn't too long, after spending a very happy little afternoon (or, sort of however long it was ) with Ginger and Jacques, that the doorbell rang. "I wondah who that could be," remarked Ginger, hopping off the couch and tapping over to the door with her many legs. She peeped out of the peep-hole, which was sort of a weirdly shaped telescope in actuality, and paused.

"Oh," she finally said, a dour tone to her voice, "It's jus' Donny."

The skeleton standing beside Lydia huffed. "What does 'heeee want?" he asked, suspiciously, "He nevar shows up 'ere withzout Beetel-jooce."

_BLINK-BLONK._

The doorbell rang again, and sighing, Ginger finally opened the door with a groan. "Yea yea, we hear ya."

Donny stood in the doorway, his candy-striped style soda jerk uniform neatly pressed, sparkling clean. His blond hair was tidily slicked, as usual, and he looked practically glowing, his countenance as pleasant and peaceful as ever, a smile settled on his pale face.

"What do you want, Donny?" Ginger asked, a suspicious edge to her voice, "Ya know ya don't usually come heah without ya brotha."

"Oh! Well, miss Ginger," the ghost happily, cheerily replies, a breezy but eager element to his voice, "It's lovely t'see you too. I'm here for miss Lydia, actually." He gestured vaguely past the door.

At that, the spider startled, and Donny's eyes raised up in a predatory flash to take in Lydia's figure past her. A vague expression played on his otherwise happy features, and his gaze hung just a little too long. Especially with that outfit she's wearing.

"Why?" Ginger demanded, still ensuring the ghost did not cross the threshold of the door. "Bee-jay didn't say anythin' about you takin' her anywhere."

Donny seemed prepared for this resistance. "Oh," he said, his voice so very apologetic, "But I have this here note from him, miss Ginger. See?" he handed the letter over to the spider, who reluctantly agreed it was indeed Betelgeuse's terrible scrawl.

Reluctantly, she turned to Lydia, and Jacque, her face not concealing her worry. "Well, ah…it looks like Donny is heah to uhm….pick ya up, Lydia. You don't have to go with him—"

"Oooh, uh, I'd hate to spread any little ole white lies there, Ginger, sweetheart," Donny interrupted, quickly, "She does have to come with me, I'm the only one who can get miss Lydia past the breach, an' back home to her own sweet lil house. I'd hate to let my brother down, apparently it's….a…. school night?" He continues to sound oh so apologetic, so genuine, innocently questioning, so concerned. And clearly, a little too eager.

Jacque clenched one of his skeletal fists, but he eventually turned to Lydia with a resigned appearance on his skeletal features. "Well Madame Lydia, it iz true Gingher nor I have ze ability to get you back to your own home. And since it iz indeed a school-night, and Donny has Beeetel-joooce's blessing, I zink….we must part ways here, and we must entrust you to his care. We will miss you, darling mon cher."

* * *

**_TheArtOfSuicide:_**

Donny was the last person in the world Lydia wanted chauffeuring her around. It was almost worth insisting on staying, missing school to not have to force herself to trudge down the walkway and fasten herself into his bright yellow beetle. But, she would rather the police not get involved with her sudden disappearance. Running away was a dramatic enough move as it was. So with a straight spine and a strong chin, Lydia powered through her unease to show Donny a modicum of proper decorum.

"Thank you for taking me home," she imparted politely, aiming her camera out the open window.

"Well don't you even dare think about even mentionin' it, lil' darlin' baby sis." His fingers twitched on the steering wheel as though he wanted very badly to reach over and touch her- pinch her cheek, bop her nose- but were under strict orders not to . "Anythin' for family." Lydia had absolutely nothing nice to say to this, and so didn't speak at all. Small talk was not her forte, but silence didn't seem to deter Donny. "Ya gotta tell me how ya met? I bet it was oh so romantic."

"Oh," Lydia panicked internally and invested herself in toying with the lighting settings. "Well, that's… kind of a complicated question. The first time I saw him, he… was trying to scare us out. My family, from our house- the Maitland's house, I mean, the ghosts that summoned him for the job. He made himself look like a giant snake. Dropped my father from the top of the stairs. The first time we ever spoke, he told me he wanted out, I told him I wanted in, and then we played charades." Saying it out loud, it was all rather romantic, wasn't it? In a twisted sort of way. "The rest is kind of a long story…" It wasn't that long, but it was deeply personal and Lydia didn't feel like sharing.

A spark of interest lit up Donny's pale blue eyes. "Evah try ta bite the big one?"

Talk about deeply personal things she didn't feel like sharing. "Yes," Lydia told the truth, unable to lie to her brother-in-law.

"Y'knoooowwww," he drawled conspiratorially, leaning too far over the center console. Lydia shrank away. "Big brothah tied himself a twine necktie all cause of some pretty lil' lass turned down takin' his last name. Swore he'd nevah love again."

Lydia's heart broke first for her husband, and then for herself. Would he ever love her? She couldn't ask him to, knowing what she knew now. Nevertheless, as long as he kept his fidelity to her, he would have hers in return.

* * *

**_guidebetlgeuse:_**

"And so y'can see, it's quite a shock that he came 'round with you, 'lil sis. Glad he got to ya before you completed your attempt successfully," continued Donny, oblivious to Lydia's discomfort, or perhaps… enjoying it. In fact, the worse Lydia seems to look, the more glowing and agitated the ghost next to her becomes. Donny suddenly lights a cigarette in the same sweeping motion as Betelgeuse would have. His are a rich black, and very long in his slim fingers. "Now, me? I was shot. Right through the heart. Y'can't see it, it's underneath m'tidy little shirt here. Big brothah says I deserved it though," he chuckles, an easy, happy noise, "Once we found each other, we used t'scare together, see. The Geuse Brothahs, theyda called us, back then. Freelancin' the bio-exorcism business. Ah, that is, before things went a lil' hinkey, an' he ….. well, ha, that's another story for another time, I'm thinkin'. Don't wanna give y'the heebie jeebies on our first family bondin' time now do I?" he smiles, wide, guiding the bright happy car through the odd, curving Neitherworld roads.

Those fingers keep twitching. They want to touch Lydia. The ghost can practically feel her tender, living warmth, and one hand starts to glide towards her threateningly. At the last minute, instead, he whips out a list from nothingness and clutches it. Unlike Beetlejuice, his hands are carefully manicured, no mold or discoloration to be seen, and no gaudy rings.

"Now, let's see," he drawls, cheerily, "Bee-jay gave me this here handy n' dandy lil' helpful list!" The list, which he passes to Lydia reads as the following:

_1\. Take Lydia back home in 1 piece and ALIVE._

_2\. Keep ur filthy mitts 2 ur fucking self u psychopath._

_3\. If I hear u touched her with those dirty hands I will bury u in the blackest exorcism closet I can find I'm serious_

_4\. No funny stuff_

_5\. There's something in it for u 2, that shit I know u like u gross fucko_

On the back is a scrawled map of directions to the drop-off point. There's also a beetle, with angry eyes and multiple knives in his hands. Then there's a heart. Betelgeuse loves his brother.

"Now, ahm thinkin' that first one is easy enough. The second and third don't really apply 'cause," he holds up one of his pristine hands, "As you can clearly see, my hands are neither filthy nor dirty. So he ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout. Fourth one is a little vague, ain't clear if I'm not supposed to tell ya jokes or whatnot, but I won't take ya to any circuses on the way home. Fifth one….that's for lil' ole me to know. I have very particular tastes," the last comes out in a very slow, very insinuating drawl, followed by a low chuckle.

His finger drifts towards her on a slow hand, invading her space. It's only to touch her camera though, tilting it, stealing glances off the road to eye it.

"You a photographer, lil darlin?" he queries, curiously, as if quite suddenly interested. "That's a real nice camera. I bet you take the purtiest photographs….would you mind helpin' your big brother Donny with a teeny tiny teensy errand 'fore he takes ya home? Promise it won't take but a minute…."

The way he says it, he isn't really asking at all.

* * *

**_TheArtOfSuicide:_**

The note Betelgeuse wrote for Donny offered Lydia little reassurance. That her husband felt the need to warn him more than once not to touch her spoke more to the danger Donny presented than to Betelgeuse's possessive nature. As confident as Lydia was that he wouldn't let any harm befall her, the fact of the matter was that he wasn't there and Donny was. If only Bubby was around to growl and snarl until that smarmy, pleasant smile was wiped from his creepy face.

"Not professional or anything," she answered, sinking deeper into her seat, clutching at her camera possessively as though he might take it away from her. "It's just a hobby…" That was a severe understatement, but it was closer to the truth than anything else Lydia was willing to disclose. "Sure. I can help," she conceded to his request, well aware that he was not about to accept the 'no' she desperately wanted to give as an answer. "What do you want me to do?"

"Absolutely nothin'. See, I got this friend I need to have a lil' talk with 'bout his behavior- been causin' trouble for anothah friend o' mine. All ya gotta do is sit your purty lil' self down at the bar n' wait for me ta be done. Think ya can do that for me, sugah?"

"Okay," Lydia surrendered bravely, not feeling one bit of the excitement she once felt at the prospect of seeing a Neitherworldian bar. It was much different going there with Donny than with Betelgeuse. Her husband had plausible deniability on his side, whereas contrarily Lydia was certain that almost everything that came out of Donny's mouth was a filthy, sugar-coated lie. "Sounds easy enough."

"Beeeeaaauuutiful," Donny drawled, grin widening as he sharply turned into a parking lot. Like a proper gentleman, her brother-in-law opened the car door for her and ushered her inside, keeping his hands to himself the entire time. The Inferno, as it turned out, wasn't just a bar, but was, in fact, a strip club. Lydia was shocked Donny even knew of this place's existence. He was so prim that the idea of him getting a lap dance was as laughable as it was disturbing. "Now you just sit riigght here," he directed her to an easily visible seat at the center of the bar, "n' I'll be back 'fore ya even knew I was gone." Breaking Betelgeuse's stern instructions for the first time, he left her with a patronizing pat on top of the head before disappearing into the crowd.

"What can I get'cha, honey?" A strikingly beautiful, scantily clad she-devil asked from behind the bar. There were horns sprouting out from the top of her coiled red hair.

"Oh, uhm," Lydia faltered, "I don't have any money. I wasn't really expecting to be here today. May I please have some water?"

* * *

**_guidebetelgeuse:_**

Indeed, Donny looked like a strange ghost among ghosts. Here, he didn't fit in whatsoever – his almost pristine glowing countenance in contradiction with everything around him like a man who was yanked out of time. It only clicks a little better once he summons an aluminum bat into his hand before disappearing into the crowd and into one of the back rooms.

The music thumped around Lydia as she sat down. The bar was relatively crowded with male and gender-less seeming spirits who eagerly jeered and hungered for the dancers who were currently at their work, all dark-eyed devil girls in appearance. This was as close to a real world strip club as it probably got it the Neitherworld. Dirty neon signs plastered the club, either advertising themselves or a specific sort of liquor. Everything here was vaguely dirty, overly used, and old. The devil girl behind the bar, a Dante's girl though Lydia had never seen one, gives pause at that. Her sweet brows rumple as she takes Lydia in completely, and she finishes cleaning the smutty glass she has in her clawed hand, putting it down slowly.

"You didn't come in with him, did you, sweet thing?—hang on." she gestures to the path Donny took off in, her voice trying not to betray the concern she clearly felt but she's distracted by another customer quickly, and passes Lydia water without being able to get her reply right away. Instead, a voice suddenly slithers out from behind poor Lydia's shoulder, thick with some sort of east coast wise-guy accent. High pitched, too, with a weird sort of lisp.

"You look a lil' lossst, honey dumplin'," the voice makes itself known with a weird off-kilter giggle as its owner slides into the barstool next to her. A clown. A clown that may have always genetically been a clown, of some sort - it's hard to tell but the makeup he wears looks more like it's part of his face. He isn't tall, exactly, and his hair is almost as wild as Betelgeuse's, except its distinctly tangled in a curly way and a pinkish off-white hue. He wears a silly patterned shirt and suspenders, but everything about him is faded and gritty. Blackened soot marks extend all the way up his neck and over part of his face, and clothes as if something gun-powdery had long ago exploded there. By his appearance it can be conjectured how he died – shot from a cannon incorrectly.

"I ain't ever seen you in heah beh-fore." Like Betelgeuse, his teeth are a stained green and yellow, his eyes dark, and his face a clownish white. "What's a pretty lil young thing like you doin' in a gah-bage heap like dis…?" he suddenly honks a clown horn, loud as anything and startling, to get the devil girl's attention behind the bar. His voice goes from syrupy and curious to a commanding growl in an instant, "Yo Candy, get me another onna them cotton candy surprises, and step on it!"

A gloved hand slithers directly onto Lydia's knee, giving it a puerile squeeze. It suddenly jumps off her skin though, once he feels her natural warmth. "Oh…" He murmurs, clownish eyes going wide as saucers, and the smile on his face splitting horrifically wide, "You're one o' them breather girls— how'd somethin' so pretty and so young git so far down here….? I can teach yeh how we juggle in the afterlife, sweet'eart…."

The Dante's girl behind the bar whirls around at the sound of that clown horn to see an even worse situation than the one Lydia came in with. It brings her right back into that little situation - Lydia isn't dead, and she just came in with Donny Geuse, and now this. The entire concept of this is absolutely horrific, and she watches the scene carefully as she mixes up the requested drink, alternating looking out through the crowd. Suddenly, as if called by some sort of silent force, a number of Dante's girls from around the bar suddenly make their way in a flock back towards the bar. They walk on cloven hooves, their tails swishing behind them.

The clown's drink is delivered, and suddenly, one of the shorter, curvier Dante's devils yells from behind them a loud, clear, "Hey Scuzzo! Catch!"

He's immediately distracted from Lydia and whirls rapidly, suddenly seeming to catch something. Good reflexes. It's a Dante girl's head, and he holds it with a high-pitched laugh. The disembodied head winks a sexy eye at Scuzzo from his lap. "Wanna take that cotton candy drink n' go play seven minutes in heaven clown boy? On the house?" Scuzzo, the aforementioned named clown, hops off the bar stool and carries the head along with him cradled in his arm. He replies as he moves away, thoroughly distracted, "Trixie, you know I don't do a damn thing in seven minutes except magic tricks –" there's a tinkle of laughter in reply, "Scuz, you're about to make somethin' disappear." And they both laugh loudly, disappearing into the crowd.

The body of the devil girl is guided along by two of the others, being rendered quite blind, over to Lydia and the rest of the pack. "Trixie takes one for the team again," the bartender says, her voice tired and dry, but thankful. "Thanks Trix. Sorry girly," she says to Lydia, "I shoulda had a handle on that sooner. You doin' okay?"

The disembodied Dante's girl leans on the bar next to Lydia where she feels grounded, and four others circle around her with curious interest. Her hands raise and they suddenly sign something rapidly in ASL. The other girls laugh, "Timed it, huh?" one of them asks her. The devil girl's hands flash signs again. Didn't even make it to seven.

* * *

**_TheArtOfSuicide:_**

"No, don't worry about it, you were busy," Lydia refused the redheaded she-devil's apology, not wanting to look weak in front of these Amazonians. They were the most beautiful woman Lydia had ever seen in her life; tall, voluptuous, oozing of sex. She felt plain and ordinary next to them. "I could have handled him on my own… but thank you." Despite her bravado, she was deeply grateful for the interference.

"Honey," the she-devil smirked, leaning far across the counter in a way that made her large breasts jut out, "the word busy isn't in my vocabulary. I got an eye on everybody in this bar at all times. Sweet thing like you sticks out like a sore thumb in this dump. Us girls gotta look out for each other."

"Speakin' of-" a blonde, curly-haired she-devil chimed in, pushing her way through the gaggle of strippers Lydia suddenly found herself flocked by, "I saw you come in here with Donny freakin' Geuse at the end of my last dance. You're not…? With him…?" The horned beauty crossed two of her talons, already dark eyes darkening further suggestively.

"Oh, God no," Lydia rejected, ready to vomit up the lovely brunch Jacques and Ginger made for her at the very idea of it. "No, no, no, no, no. No. He's my brother-in-law." She might as well have told them she was the resurrected Messiah, come to offer them all salvation from their afterlives of sin.

"You are not-"

"He did not-"

"Well, it would explain where he's been. I was startin' ta wonder if he took that last session a lil' personal or somethin'-"

"Ain't no way, ain't no how. I don't believe it. Pics or it didn't happen-"

"Look! She's got the ring!"

Suddenly, they were circling even further, one of them grabbing her petite hand up to showcase the plain silver band as though it were something significant; a holy grail instead of just a stupid cup. It was very apparent to Lydia that not only did all of these gorgeous women know her husband, they knew her husband. In the biblical sense. She was going to be sick. "You… all… ?" She was able to choke out, feeling a rush of emotions she knew she didn't have any right to feel. It was one thing to be aware of her husband's extensive experience. It was another thing entirely to have its large breasts staring you in the face, serving you drinks.

It was before her. She knew that. Still, she also knew that she could never, ever compare. What the fuck did Betelgeuse see in her?

* * *

**_guidebetelgeuse:_**

"Well, yeah," breathes one of the girls as they all look at Lydia in sudden surprise. Something dawns on all of them at approximately a similar time, one of them holding her hand still, as if it were a tender sort of treasure.

"You mean….you…. haven't?"

There's a heavy pause between all of them, and they stare at her with an even greater and more intense shock than before, and then look at each other with incredulity.

Lydia's other hand, resting in her lap, twists into her poncho. "We've done other things," she mutters in a sort of half-whispered self-defense, her cheeks on fire. How dare they?

One of them stutters, and another quickly tries to explain. "No, no, doll, it ain't that. It's just….the man has a…."

"….uncontrollable….," adds another, trying to help.

"….massive, uhm, unbridled… ," adds a third, awkwardly.

"….singularly focused…." helpfully chimes in another.

"Intensive sexual appetite," finishes the bartender, bluntly, "he comes through like a force of nature and leaves nothin' but scorched earth in his wake. Now all you stupid skanks back off."

They do, easing away from clustering around Lydia, looking properly shamed. One of them, with a sweet and shy breathy voice murmurs, "It's just, we've never known any girl to be able to hold onto that buckin' bronco and keep him tame like that, but if there was one girl who could, I expect it'd be you, miss. He must be real content… .how do ya do it?"

Another girl looks at her studiously, "Are you a witch?"

"If you ladies are good she might teach you her tricks," the bartender cuts in, winking at poor Lydia. "She's a higher quality than any of you and you know it. What's your name anyway, honey?" asks the bartender, her voice much more commanding and strong than most of the others. "I'm Candy, that's Melodie, this is Hazel, that's Zaza, and these two fine ones are the twins, Sugar n' Spice."

As if on cue, the twins both cheerily add in tandem, "And everything nice!" to a chorus of groans. "Sorry," one of them apologizes, "Habit."

The headless one points to herself, and holds up a middle finger at the bartender after slapping the wood of the bar-top to get her attention. Candy rolls her eyes, "And that's Trixie, the funny one. When's your head comin' back doll? He's been banging that thing for a half hour." Trixie shrugs her headless shoulders, and taps her wrist helplessly where there is no watch to be found.

"Anyway, us girls gotta stick together, we're just excited for you," the breathy, sultry, shy one says, apparently that's Zaza. "You're the most beautiful thing to show up on our side 'a town in ….well. It's been a while, hasn't it?" the girls all nod, looking at Lydia with a sort of sad reverence. "How'd it all happen, sug?"

* * *

**_TheArtOfSuicide:_**

"Lydia," she introduced herself, playing with her hair demurely, made shy by all of their bold flattery. These women had no reason to lie to her. When Betelgeuse called her beautiful, it was easy to write it off as him just trying to get into her pants. That's not to say it wasn't genuine, but there was a definite layer of mistrust there that did not exist here. "I'm not a witch, but I have dabbled in Wicca- nothing that intense though. Are you all… succubi? Or something like that?"

Candy's grin grew fierce and she trailed a crimson claw very gently across Lydia's pink cheek- non-threateningly, as if in awe of her. "Somethin' like that."

"I'm really not- I mean, I don't know how…" Lydia trailed off, suddenly finding her water very interesting. "I don't have any tricks. I've never really been with anyone before Beej. Not really."

There was a collective gasp of shock. The she-devils were so floored by her near-virgin status they didn't even stop to comment on the adorable nickname the girl had given the poltergeist- something he never allowed them to do. Candy suddenly stood up straight, a gleam of determination in her eyes. "LOU!" She screeched, grabbing the attention of a portly bartender taking care of patrons too impatient to wait for Candy's attention. "I'M TAKIN' TEN! THE BAR'S YOURS!" With that, she hopped right over said bar to both literally and proverbially take the young kitten under her wing. "You're comin' with us, doll. You're obviously in need of some serious girl time."

"But," Lydia objected weakly as she was swept away past a velvet curtain, flanked on either side by two to three Amazons, "Donny told me to wait for him-"

"Pfft," Trixie derided, having regathered her head in the midst of the commotion, "Donny Geuse can kiss my glorious ass. Don't worry, hon. We can handle him. Ya can't let those Geuse brothers boss ya around, ya know. Especially Betel. If ya ask me, he's a big bully and could use a spanking."

Unseen by Lydia, Candy shot Trixie a disapproving look, knowing exactly what she was doing by planting rebellious thoughts like that in the girl's head, and gifted her "glorious ass" with a stealthy, punishing smack. Trixie, ever the troublemaker, winked conspiratorially, licking her upper lip suggestively with a purple forked tongue. Soon, they ushered Lydia into a lush changing room filled with rows upon rows of skimpy outfits; lace and leather, glitter and feathers, spandex and latex. Anything one could possibly need to fulfill any type of erotic fantasy was in this room. There were toys, costumes, props, and was that… a nun's habit? Everything she saw only made that constant blush deepen.

Aside from all of this, there were several cushy love seats generously adorned with large, fluffy pillows. As amorously decorated as the room was, Lydia got the feeling that men were not allowed here. A monster of a bouncer stood outside the door, ready to destroy any unwanted visitors. The slight fearful thrill she got from disobeying Donny's wishes was tempered by this. Candy took the seat next to her on the loveseat, like mother goose with her favorite chick, while all the rest of them gathered on the ground before her like children at story time.

"Now," Candy began, playing idly with Lydia's exotically dark hair. Not one of them had black hair. They were all various shades of red, blonde, and brown. Some even had visible roots as though they dyed their hair, which in and of itself was fascinating to Lydia. "We want details. We wanna know how you met, the proposal, and definitely about the wedding."

Lydia laughed, a short jerky sound, and accepted the cigarette Zaza had to offer. "Which one?"

* * *

**_guidebetelgeuse:_**

The girls' reactions to Lydia's stories are enthusiastic to say the least, chiming in at certain parts here and there with shock, surprise or enjoyment. It's quite a wild ride, and Lydia spills everything because the devil girls are fascinated and ask her sweetly – what they've done, what they haven't. It's probably the most interesting thing to happen to them in millennia, actually, and they are having far too much fun gossiping with her.

Sugar and Spice have already begun playing with Lydia's silken locks in fascination, and Zaza is leaned against one of her knees, plucking at a rose and looking dreamy. "It's so romantic," she swoons, from the floor, her cloven hoof-tips pressed against each other. It's as if she's always known them, and they her, and Candy engages Lydia in a new game once her stories are finished.

"Let's play Blackmail: Betelgeuse Edition!" she suggests, evilly, just as mischievous as the rotten ghost that visits them, "She's gonna need dirt on him, ladies." The group titters, because it's true. "I'll go first, because Zaza," she announces with confidence, "you don't know how romantic he can be!" she says this, jokingly, and a few of them laugh because they know this story far, far, too well. "Once, sugar," she addresses Lydia, "The man must have watched Romeo n' Juliet with Leonardo DiCaprio or somethin'. Wanted Romeo and Juliet. The works. Period costumes, we had the whole balcony scene goin', I was Juliet 'o course. And he did it. He read the fuckin' lines," she's already laughing, "He got as far as 'O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?' which was way further than I ever expected him to get before he climbed over the balcony and hauled me off like king kong. I think we said that line and made gorilla noises for three months straight!"

At this point, the girls are howling, wiping tears from their eyes. Sugar has almost smothered her poor face into Lydia's shoulder laughing and Spice is sprawled backwards, kicking her cloven hooves. It's unusual to see ladies so beautiful let their hair down in such a way, but Lydia has apparently thoroughly charmed them all.

* * *

**_TheArtOfSuicide:_**

Lydia couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed so hard. These women had stories. In return for their gossip, she offered up classified information of her own, disclosing intimate secrets of her relationship that she never thought she would find herself saying aloud to anyone other than maybe Betelgeuse. They knew just how to seduce her into a girlish, talkative state. Candy had fetched her a glass- or two- of a deep, dark wine. It tasted of berries, made her cheeks warm and her tongue loose. Bits and pieces of her hair had been twined into tiny intricate braids by Sugar and Spice, the vast majority left down for them to rake their claws through. Idly, Lydia toyed with Zaza's perfect golden curls, boinging them as the she-devil melted against her knee, purring.

"I don't want to give her back," Zaza confessed in a hush to no one in particular, though her face was tilted toward their leader. Lydia was too thoroughly lulled to feel the chill of trepidation she should have.

"Not this one," Candy surrendered bittersweetly, admitting defeat even as she gazed fawned over the girl covetously. "She's not for us… but there is something we can do. Hazel, do you still have the…?" She pantomimed "horns," holding two bent digits up to her own sharp prongs.

"Uh huh!" The bottom-heavy brunette agreed readily, flying away to rummage messily through a dresser drawer. When she returned, she passed something off to Sugar. Together with Spice, the twins worked to pull back her hair just so as to tie a thick, black ribbon around at the nape of her neck. Curiously, she pawed at the top of her head, only to find a pair of miniature horns all her own. With a pleasant gasp, she turned toward one of the many mirrors that lined the wall- who they were there for, Lydia wasn't sure as hers was the only reflection present. They were red and short, as opposed to the longer flesh toned ones the women sported. Appreciating her image in a rare show of vanity, she decided they suited her quite well. Especially with the poncho.

"There we go," Trixie threw an arm around her shoulders to press her cheek in close, lifted the camera around Lydia's neck, and then grinned cheekily, taking a selfie of the two of them. Lydia was charmed enough to manage a sweet, blushing smile. "Now you're one of us! An honorary Dante's Girl! You wear that to any seedy den o' sin in the Neitherworld and you'll have eyes lookin' out for you, girly. It helps that they're awfully fashionable."

With this, she proceeded to take a series of increasingly silly selfies, until the other she-devils became agitated with her greediness. Fork it over, you camera hog!

* * *

**_guidebetelgeuse:_**

They even got a picture with Scrubs, the bouncer at the door. He loves those girls to pieces and guards them like a dragon, he was very pleased it seems that the girls had made a friend – even if she was a breather. He probably had a multitude of questions, but never asked them. After making a pretty overt overture to Lydia once fully back in the dressing room with the door closed, Zaza was distracted from her perusal of the girl – there was a noise outside.

A distinct thud. The door opened, and into the frame stepped Donny, tidy hair disheveled, sheened with sweat, his clothes splattered with….something. He taps the aluminum bat on the door itself, the end of it dripping in….some sort of gunk. He looks just as fierce and evil as his brother in that moment, his blue eyes flicking upwards from where they eyed the formerly awake bouncer to take in the cadre of girls and Lydia among them. Seeing her, his countenance immediately returns to bright and easy, "There y'are sweet darlin', I thought…." he breathes in relief, "I thought somethin' happened to ya—I was lookin' and lookin….".

In contrast, the girls are instantly thrown into a hellacious froth, and their true nature is shot to the surface. Where there once were beautiful women, there are now seething hellcats, their fangs extended, hissing and spitting like furious felines. Their claws have grown to nasty lengths, their horns protrude more threateningly. Candy, the mother hen, unfurls a large pair of bat-like wings tipped with spines and moves in front of Lydia, snarling at the Geuse brother in the door.

The look he gives them is ice cold, but a tinge of worry settles on his features. "Ah have to take her home," he says, firmly, but he's clearly outnumbered here by these beautiful monsters and surprised by their ferocity and it's thrown him off his game. He hesitates in the door. Coward.

"She's not going anywhere with you, Donny Geuse," Candy insists, forked tongue and tail lashing. Her voice is a hiss, "We know what you want to do to her."

It is Lydia that steps in and saves the day. Or, well, herself in this instance. Ever the peacemaker, she assures the girls of her safety and steps over to Donny, who seems genuinely relieved. Buckling into his beetle a few moments later after she says her goodbyes and extracts herself, he breathes out slowly.

"Excitin' times huh?" he asks her merrily, driving away from the bar and magically straightening his everything back to pristine. It's like they hadn't even been there at all. "Cute horns, though I've gotta admit, sweet lil sis, I'm awful glad y'don't have the attitude that comes 'long with 'em," he loosens his bow-tie. "I think they were plannin' on evisceratin' your poor brothah. Speakin' of evisceratin', it's prob'ly best that y'don't go on and tell Bee-jay 'bout our lil' expedition, hm?"

It isn't long before he delivers her to the door that supposedly leads her directly back home. "I suppose this you, heah, darlin' sis. Don't be a stranger, y'hear? You ever need anythin', anythin' at all, you just say m'name three times like y'do with Bee-jay. I can't come over to the other side, but I'll hear ya, be able to speak to ya. It'll get my notice."

Like she would ever want to.


	11. The Problem Child

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

When Lydia stepped through the door to the living realm, she found herself in her bedroom just like last time, entering through the doorway where her closet should have been. The moon was high in the sky, both of her parents sleeping deeply, heavily sedated. Fortunately, she was able to get a couple good hours of sleep in before waking at the crack of dawn, readying herself for school, and departing from the house without ever having to see them. They were sure to have words for her, but Lydia honestly couldn't care to hear them. The school day passed by quickly. As promised, Lydia wore the marks of her husband's affection proudly, daring her teachers or classmates to speak up,_ say something._ They remained expectedly silent. Maybe if Claire or Stacy were still enrolled at Miss Shannon's, they would have found a way to spin this around on her, mock her, maybe imply that she was "easy." That would be _rich _coming from them, and a refreshing change from their usual implications that she was revolting boy-repellent. In time, new bullies were sure to crop up in the wake of Claire and Stacy's absences. It was the natural order of things. For now, Lydia was in the clear.

Delia was a nervous wreck when she came home. Charles wasn't in sight, but if Lydia had to guess, she knew where he was; wasting away in his study, doing his best to destroy his liver. The despised redhead blubbered incoherently on the phone with someone- _the police,_ Lydia gathered quickly, stringing together bits and pieces of what Delia was saying. Something about how "they were a bunch of incompetent pigs, her daughter had been kidnapped, and how dare they sit on their asses doing nothing just because she hadn't been gone for more than twenty-four hours." The girl found it all overly dramatic and tiresome and wished very badly that she could float through walls like the Maitlands. Then, she wouldn't have to subject herself what happened next.

Upon sighting her- in school uniform, walking through the door with a bored expression on her face- Delia shrieked and dropped the phone right to the floor without bothering to give the person on the other end an explanation._ "Charles!"_ She sobbed brokenly, pulling Lydia into a crushing hug that the girl hated every second of. _"She's okay! Lydia's home!" _Meanwhile, the corners of Lydia's mouth twitched with distaste as she endured the embrace. _They missed her so much, did they?_ They were certainly worried enough to self-medicate until they were in such a heavy stupor that the front door slamming shut that morning hadn't even woken them. Coming at the sound of Delia's call, her father stumbled down the stairs. He looked like hell. It was clear he hadn't shaved in several days, he reeked of liquor and was still wearing his pajamas. Instead of worrying about his wellbeing like she ordinarily might have, Lydia only felt a slight pang of guilt that was quickly overshadowed by disgust. She went _missing,_ and freaking _Delia _was the one on the phone with the police raising hell, fighting for her while her father chose instead to abscond from reality?

Fuck them both.

"Where were you?!" Charles slurred once he was done sobbing drunkenly over his apathetic daughter. "You- you went to school? _We were so worried!"_

Lydia remained unconvinced. "I was with my lover," she announced boldly, remorselessly, sticking to her resolution to never refer to Betelgeuse as a "boyfriend" ever again. Chin tilting up rebelliously so as to better show off her numerous hickeys, she clutched at the shiny new camera hanging around her neck. "He bought me a present. It's mine and you can't take this one away."

The tears on both Deetzes faces very quickly dried in the face of such impudence. _What the Hell was going on here?_ Who was this insolent brat that had replaced their passive, well-behaved daughter? Born and bred New Yorkers weren't about to take sass like that standing still. _They yelled._ And yelled, and yelled, growing increasingly red-faced even as Lydia continued to remain aloof and terse with her answers.

_"You are forbidden from seeing this boy ever again!"_

"Try and stop me."

_"You thought two weeks was bad? Try two months! Two YEARS!"_

Yawn. "Sure thing, Delia."

_"If you don't watch yourself, you're going to end up just like your mother!"_

The house went quiet. Charles' face drained of all color, well aware of the terrible mistake he had just made, while Lydia's bored countenance froze. Her eyes narrowed, upper lip curling in vehemence. "Don't _you _dare talk about _my _mother." Molten eyes flickered back and forth between her sorry excuses for parents before she stood from the couch they'd cornered her into, somehow looking down on both of them despite the height disadvantage. "This conversation is over. I'll be cooking my own dinner tonight. As far as I care, you can both _starve."_

With that, Lydia stormed from the room and up the stairs, furiously blinking back tears of rage. _How dare he? What right did he have?_ Filled with all kinds of nasty emotions, Lydia lost herself in uploading the photos from her camera to her laptop, so much so that she didn't even notice when her husband's devilishly handsome visage made an appearance in her vanity's mirror.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse watches his sweet, tasty wife do_ "computer things"_ for a span of about seven minutes, leaning behind the reflective glass. He was busy imagining what response he might receive from her once he entered – the few hours she had spent in the Neitherworld were, to his mind's eye, probably fairly refreshing. He had, after all, left her with some of the best people he could conjure – minus Donny, but he had given Donny _explicit _instructions.

Eventually, his impatience won out and he pushed through the mirror's surface, running a filthy hand through gnarled, wild hair. "Baaaabes," he called to her, suggestively, halfway out of the looking glass with no idea of the chaos he'd caused, "I'm hooOOooome."

He was returned right to the mood in which he had left her, horny, intimate feeling, having made her cum by being gentle with her poor misused body. He had made things perfect for her when he left, in a manner that would almost denote him as _thoughtful._ What she doesn't know won't hurt her: most of those bath things came from forcing the Patels to rob their living counterparts of theirs, and as it turns out, Mrs. Patel makes a mean custom soap. Well, not literally mean. Quite nice as it turns out, but he wouldn't really know the difference. The wrinkled smile on his face reveals his grimy teeth, he at least, is overly happy to see _her _and he makes his way over to where she sits, his hands already pawing at her without any kind of permission, trying to get into her hair and under her shirt just to feel her living warmth and her soft skin.

"Didja have fun in the Neitherworld, sugartits?" he practically breathes down her neck, "I _missed _you."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Not now, Beej," Lydia rejected gently, shrinking away from his touch. "I'm not in the mood." Despite her dour countenance, she found it in herself to gift him with a tiny, half-hearted smile over her shoulder- there and then gone. "I missed you, too."

Just as she said this, the vast plethora of photos she took during her stay in the Neitherworld- sans husband- finished uploading to her laptop. There must have been hundreds. The SD card was massive, could hold several movies worth of footage if she wanted to use it that way.

"Thank you for the camera," she acknowledged passively, without any of the beaming excitement that was felt when she first spotted it on his dresser. "It really pissed off my parents. Oh yeah, I'm forbidden from seeing you by the way." Her dry, emotionless tone was granted a slight reprieve in the form of a nasty smirk. She was sure he'd find that hilarious.

"I had fun. Jacques and Ginger are really nice and you should treat them better. Your brother is a fucking creep and I never want to be left alone with him again."

It appeared Lydia was fed up with propriety at the moment. Everything she had to say dripped with bitter sarcasm.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Not in the mood huh?" replies the ghoul, leaning down to lick her earlobe disgustingly with a slimy tongue. He doesn't stop what he's doing, despite her shrinking away, refusing to accept her admittedly mild rejection. That sounds like a _challenge._ He can be pretty slick when he wants. And she missed him, right?

He chuckles low over her shoulder as she acknowledges the mischief he caused with her parents. "Ole Chuck didn't like the idea of you gettin' your own equipment, huh?" he guesses incorrectly, and then suddenly clutches his jacket front, as if having some sort of heart attack. "I'm _forbidden?"_ He gasps, "Lyds, say it ain't so!"

He gets down on his knees, next to her, eyeing her from down there lustfully for a moment before asking, "What'll we do? We could always elope! Oh, _wait…_." He laughs, "….hang on, I'm just gonna choke and die on the floor for a few minutes here. I don't think I've ever been forbidden from _jack shit_ in my entire afterlife Lyds. What'd they say? _You can't see that dirty boy punkin', he might be doin' stuff to you. Like fucking you. And I, Charles Deetz, haven't gotten my dick wet in over ten years. We're converting the house to a nunnery. I bought you a habit,"_ he imitates her father's voice as if it were really him and then falls into gales of laughter as he collapses slowly to the floor.

At the mention of his brother though, he looks up from where he'd eventually wound up sprawled near her feet, and grunts suspiciously. "Yea I know he is. He's not so bad once you get to know 'em. He's the only one I know of that can get near the breach like I can. Otherwise, I wouln'ta asked him." He attempts to climb into Lydia's lap like an over-large gropey cat, then, squeezing and touching her in places, just to be a complete and utter nuisance. "What'dya take pictures of? Anythin' good?" he tries poking at her computer uselessly, blocking her arms, "Did you take any _nudes?"_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Stop it!" She snapped, shirking his arms away and standing from the bed entirely, taking the laptop with her. "I'm sorry," she apologized tersely, not feeling _at all_ sorry, and settled down in front of her vanity with the laptop. "I've just had a shitty day and like I already told you, I'm _not _in the mood." She made sure to dim the screen's brightness and dip the top just enough to hinder his view of the images as she scrolled down, assessing her work.

"I mostly just got the roadhouse, Jacques and Ginger, some of Donny, and…" She trailed off, contemplating whether or not she should go on. Donny didn't want her to tell Betelgeuse about their little side trip. Why? She wasn't sure, but she could handle Beej being pissed at her. Donny? _No thank you._ "Nothing much, really," she lied in a way that she hoped was convincing, shoulders hunching slightly. "That's all."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

_Oof!_ She drops him like dead weight as she slides out from under him, taking her laptop with her. _Fuckin' teenagers!_ He looks surprised, to say the least, left bemused on the top of her comforter. _She was serious!_

She didn't even laugh at his jokes, and now she's spurning his attention? That behavior won't do. He works himself up into a crouch on her bed, letting her click through her photos momentarily. "Hmmm, nothin' that tells me who or what pissed in your cereal," the ghost growls, lighting a cigarette, "So I think yer lyin' to me, Lydia Geuse."

She suddenly finds her laptop whisked out from under her hands, floated into the air by the ghost, far out of her reach. He makes motions on his lap as if clicking and moving a mouse, the motions reflected on the screen high above him. "Now I gotta see how this thing really works—-nudes? Nah that's not a nude. I don't know what that is. I dunno how to work this thing. Liable to break it, maybe," he says, casually, "Mmm, nnhhh….nawh that's somethin' else….oh here we go." He 'clicks' his imaginary mouse eagerly, "Oooh, yep there's the Roadhouse….there's the stupid spider….th—-wait, you're in a different outfit in these. Where the hell did you find _that?"_

Did someone buy this for her? His lips go tight and she can see his expression change from casual mischief to disgruntled annoyance. He likes that outfit. What the hell went on while he was gone? He clicks, and clicks, and keeps clicking. They're taking a trip in Donny's car. They're going somewhere. Somewhere along the way he catches a picture she took of a _look _his brother slides her, and he snarls audibly. "Fuckin' dick for brains…." He mutters. Click, click, click—-that's not the breach. That's…..

…..the infamous den of sin that the girls work on the side, the Inferno Bar.

He almost drops the laptop completely from its perch, but catches it with a "Woah!" click. Click.

_That's Scuzzo._

_Those are Dante's girls._

_A LOT of Dante's girls. There's Candy, and Trixie, and Zaza he thinks—-_

That was enough. The ghost sputters. He spits. He is enraged, but mostly because she kept this from him. Sneaky little viper…!

"H….how did this …..when did ya—- _Donny brought y'here?! I gave that asshole explicit. Fuckin'. Instructions._ Lydia, are those Dante's girls!? Did you—-do anything with them!?" He points at her, accusingly, _"Explain yerself, girl._ And the clown—-did he fuckin' say anything to you? _Did he touch you—"_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Give it back! Stop it, you're going to _drop it!_ Ugh!" It was taking a lot of concentration to temper her tone, keep her parents from overhearing the commotion. He floated just out of her reach, but close enough so that it looked like she might be able to reach him if she could just jump a _little bit higher._ "You're such a jerk!"

It didn't take him very long at all to figure out how to scroll through the photos. This is where Lydia gave up, sitting back down on the stool to her vanity and pouting, arms crossed over her chest.

"What do you mean _explain myself,"_ she bit back, glaring. _"I_ didn't do _anything._ _You're _the one who left your creepy brother in charge. _He's _the one that decided he absolutely _had _to get a lap dance before taking me home. If you're that curious about what happened, why don't you just go ask _him,_ Romeo?" Again, the side of her mouth twitched into a nasty smirk. It wasn't often Lydia could get a leg up on him. At the moment, she was beyond grateful for the ammo her newest friends had given her. "But don't tell him I told you," she still dared to request snarkily, scowling. "He told me not to. _Creep."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

He finds a picture of his pretty, innocent, perfectly corruptible Lydia in devil's horns next, clicking by accident to the next round of photos in his pique of anger.

"_WHAT_ are _THOSE?!"_ He seems immediately less concerned with Donny wanting a lap-dance than this picture, though it does fit his profile that he'd dump Lydia in a bar while he got his rocks off. Sick dipshit. Romeo. Did she just say _Romeo?!_

"Sto—-knock it off—-you are _asking for it lil' girl."_ He has so many people to kill that he's getting a raging hard-on just thinking about it. Well, and maybe also because he's lustily flipping through the photos of her with the girls. Anger and lust were two intertwined emotions for him, and this was like a perfect storm. "Any scenarios involvin' Romeo and Juliet that these lyin' whores told you are pure and utter fabrications, a gross misrepresentation of my character, and furthermore, disgusting."

How dare she stroll into his seedy world so nonchalantly? So _flippantly?!_ _Oh, she was in. Trouble._

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_Ha._ His adamant denial regarding Candy's story only told her that every single word of it was true. She may have been "asking for it", but he was full of shit and Lydia wasn't about to back down when she knew she had him caught in a lie.

"I prefer _Macbeth,_ myself," she teased gratuitously, rubbing it in. Meanwhile, she dug through a drawer in her vanity very casually. "_Romeo & Juliet_ is a bit… juvenile for my tastes. I like romance just as much as the next girl, but suicide pacts are just a little too sappy in my book." The insult was clear in her insinuations. _He was the real romantic sap here. Not her, the inexperienced teenage girl._ "Two of the fairest stars in all the Heavens having some business do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return," she quoted, tone sultry as she tied the horns in place around her head. "What if her eyes were there? They in her head. The brightness of her cheek would _shame _those stars as daylight doth a lamp. Her eyes in heaven would through the airy regions stream so bright…"

With a put-upon sigh, she turned from her mirror and granted him a victorious, sinister smile. "That birds would _sing... _and think it were not night." It appeared Lydia was quite the little actress when she wanted to be. If only she could apply those skills to her genuine attempts at ingenuity. "I think I'll keep doing whatever the fuck I want, thank you very much. Trixie said that you're a big bully and not to let you boss me around… right before they made me an _honorary Dante's Girl."_ Here, she beamed, for some reason quite proud of her status as a living, breathing whore.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Speechless. For the entirety of her little dialogue from preferring Macbeth, and her insults to Romeo & Juliet –_ he was juvenile, was he?! –_ she has rendered him speechless, and the little jab about suicide pacts injures him deeper than he's about to let on. _Ow._ But beyond that, she's quoting the scene he couldn't finish effortlessly, and his eyes are like blazing fire as he watches her dig through her vanity. _Fuck._

Those _goddamn _hellcats. Those she-beasts. Hellions! Those monstrous little enabler encouragers! He wasn't _about _to be put in his place by a sixteen-year-old girl who'd just had her first real sexual awakening! He doesn't quite realize what she's up to at first until she turns, wearing the aforementioned horns. And, still quoting Shakespeare, she informs him she'll keep doing exactly what she likes and— _Trixie said so, huh._ The look on his face is imperceptible as she turns around and informs him of her intentions, but as she throws him that sinister little grin, his own splits into a slow…

….sinister….

…smile of his own.

"Honorary…..Dante's girl, _is that right…."_ He practically purrs, in that gravelly baritone, eyes going from wide to dark in a blink. One emotion has won out of the two that were warring, and he prowls over to her and the vanity in an instant, faster than he had any right to be able to move. The laptop drops to the bed with a soft thump, snapping closed, and Lydia rapidly finds the ghoul pressed up against her, pinning her bodily to the vanity. His rough hand closes around her delicate neck just enough to threaten, able to enclose most of it in its span. He growls into her ear, "Little girl, do you _know _what I do to Dante's girls?"

It's a rhetorical question, which he answers with, "It ain't Romeo n' Juliet, and by the time I'm through, y'ain't gonna be _speakin' Shakespeare."_ He gives her a little aggressive shake, for emphasis. "In fact, I think I should show you exactly what happened to that fuckin' dumb slut _Trixie _th' last time she _crossed me."_ His hips have pushed against hers, and she can probably feel his _intentions _clearly.

Gripping Lydia by her neat and tidy little schoolgirl outfit, he bodily hauls her up and away, cigarette dangling from his lips. He carries her physically back over to her bed, switching his hands around deftly in order to fist one of them nastily in her pretty straight hair. He's not being nice about it, either, before where he had only squeezed and tugged he is now pulling, forcing her by her hair into a position over his lap. "C'mere," he directs her aloud, demanding she adjust herself appropriately, "You wanna be my _whore,_ huh? You're gonna learn exactly what _that's like, Honorary Dante's Girl."_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

She managed to swallow the gasp his rapid movements inspired, gripping the edge of her vanity so tightly her already porcelain knuckles turned a ghastly, bloodless white. _I ain't afraid of no ghost, _she reminded herself with stubborn determination, and jutted her chin up, maintaining a strong front. Despite her brave facade, her heart pounded. Her breaths were coming quicker. When he shook her, her adamantine guard shattered just a bit. The frightened child within made a split-second appearance in the form of wide eyes and an almost inaudible whimper.

"She's not a _dumb slut,"_ Lydia defended her friend fiercely, unfazed by the warning his insult garnished. She matched his ire bit for bit, legitimately infuriated by the way he spoke about these women- as though they were objects meant purely for his sexual pleasure, not _people _with _feelings _and _emotions._ "She's funny! And smart! And-"

Apparently, Betelgeuse wasn't interested in hearing about Trixie's numerous good qualities. Cutting off her impassioned defense, he manhandled her over to the bed, ignoring the way she squirmed and voiced her dissent. "Stop it- Beej, you're being _too rough,_ I _mean _it!"

_"C'mere," _he ordered, unconcerned, pulling her hair in a way that made her scalp burn in protest. Still, her insides churned pleasantly, and she reluctantly moved into the humiliating position he wanted her in; bent over his lap, back arched, the side of her face mashed into the blankets. _"You wanna be _**my whore**_, huh? You're gonna learn exactly what that's like, _**Honorary Dante's Girl**_."_

Oh, she was a fool. She was so _proud,_ so happy to be accepted for once in her life by a group of women that genuinely enjoyed her company that she forgot _what it meant to be one of them._ Lydia knew very well what he did to them. It was only through their reassurances that the stab of jealousy she used to experience at the thought of their trysts was dulled.

"Betelgeuse," she growled out in a last form of defiance, unwilling to cave to his whims as easily as she had in the past. "If you don't get your _fucking hands_ off of me _right this second, Betelgeuse-"_ Number two was grit out into the blanket brutally as she writhed atop his lap, trying in vain to free herself. "You're going to regret it– mmfff-"

Unfortunately, Lydia had also forgotten the cardinal rule of deception. _You can't bullshit a bullshitter._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Ohohoo, oooaah, ah-ah-ah-ah! Not gonna say the B-word!" comes the sudden and surprised ape-like noise of dissent from the ghost, as Lydia threatens him with his name not once, but _twice._ His response is rapid, and Lydia finds her sweet lips wrapping around the plug of a round rubber ball-gag right after her warning of _regret it._ He's summoned it from nowhere, pushing it unapologetically into her mouth which was open enough to threaten him with a third incantation of his name.

He's instantly taken away her agency, her ability to recall him, in that moment. He knows, too, because he relishes in it - he tightens the strap behind her head physically, not bothering to use his juice so she can feel _every _bit of it. In a breath, he's kissed her ear lovingly and whispered to her, at least remembering she's a living breathing thing and not another ghostly romp,_ "T'tap out, smack m' leg twice an' I might listen. But now I ain't goin' anywhere, babes."_ Her hands, though, those are juiced in a blink to say secure behind her back as if tied with ropes. That ought to prevent any funny ideas about getting that gag out, and it let him keep gripping her hair and smoking.

She'd misbehaved, utterly. She'd forgotten who was really in charge here, _who wore the pants._ And he was going to make sure she knew it. With the girl gagged, her hands immobile, he could take a good slow drag on his cigarette, crossing the ankles of his black boots underneath her casually. The problem had been secured, and now he could _take his time._

"If you were a _real _Dante's girl," he starts, his voice matter-of-fact, "An' ya went off like that on me, I'd put my cigarette out right on that pretty, flawless back of yers to _watch you writhe."_ He switches said cigarette from one hand into the hand that grips her hair, carefully keeping it away from the strands. He blows smoke down onto the top of her head purposefully. "But, you're just an _honorary _one, so we can't do that, can we?"

His hand is free to roam, and it does. "Rejectin' me when I try n' touch you," he lists,_ "Not in the mood._ I'm gonna fix that, little girl. You don't know what I can do to you." As if to give her a sample, he places his coarse, moldy hand flat on the small of her back, right above the knee-length pleated skirt she wears for school. In an instant, there's a rush of heated energy that pools right between her legs, throbbing, causing a sudden, intense, needful ache. It's as if she's been at peak arousal for hours, unable to find relief or respite, her body suddenly and powerfully begging for release. "How's that?" He sneers, listening for her muffled response from behind the gag, _"Surprise. _Let's list yer sins while we're sittin' here waitin' for you to beg me to get you off."

He raises her school skirt, then, pulling it over her back to reveal her perfectly round, luscious bottom. He loves her ass in particular, and takes a moment to soak it in – no special panties today, it seems. Regular every-day ones today and these seem to have a little ghost design on the ass, and it says 'Boo!' cheerfully. Adorable. She's precious. His hand relinquishes her hair in order to delicately, and slowly, scoot the little underthings past the smooth curve of her pert asscheeks.

"Lyin' to me," comes the first of her transgressions, "Is fuckin' hot. But I'll _find out."_ _THAP!_ The first spank is firm, but not too hard. His palm meets her ass squarely, making it jiggle. There's a dull sting with it, and it makes whatever awful aching arousal she's been made to experience worse. It isn't like the dream version, either – she can feel every bit of it. "Givin' me attitude when I come home after a long day's work? That's gonna be a problem, too." _THWUP!_ "Daddy doesn't like it when his little girl isn't happy t'see 'em," he continues, "And fightin' me? Lydia Geuse," he laughs, aloud suddenly, giving her another, even firmer _THWUAP!_ "I'm gonna win. _I'm always gonna win._ So y'might as well get used to it, you little viper."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

At the foreign sensation of something big, round, and rubber stretching her jaw wide open, muffling her speech, Lydia panicked. The ability to call him back was the only real insurance she had to ensure her safety around him. It was her proverbial security blanket, the last assurance she had that he wouldn't cause her any real harm, and now it was gone. In the blink of an eye. _Just like that._ All she had on her side was his unreliable word, his half-hearted promise to "do no harm." Paired with the knowledge that he would likely never love her, this was enough to send her survival instincts into overdrive.

She went _wild;_ yanking fruitlessly at the ties that held her wrists together, the efforts leaving light red marks behind, eyes misting with frustrated tears, and hyperventilating through her nostrils. A firm hand on her lower back kept her from bucking off of his lap and falling to the ground. Then, cold lips were brushing her ear tenderly, offering her a dubious opt-out of the precarious situation she found herself in. It was barely anything, considering how very untrustworthy he was, but it was enough.

He didn't want to _hurt _her. Not really. He was just upset. She had been rather callous with him, hadn't she? She hadn't even given him proper thanks for his beautiful, thoughtful gift. Her upset with her parents had been unequally taken out on him, which really wasn't fair of her. Ready to accept her fate, Lydia stilled her ineffective objections. Her inhalations were still deep and fast, but markedly calmer than before. It finally felt like enough oxygen was getting into her bloodstream. The hand in her hair had yet to soften its unyielding grip, but given time the burning pain had dulled to more of a numb ache.

However, when he disclosed what he would have done to her if she were a _real _Dante's girl, she couldn't help but tense up all over again. _He wouldn't._ One of her hands flattened in desperation against his pant leg, ready to deliver the slaps to her salvation should he find himself tempted to do such a thing. Luckily, it was just a ploy to make her squirm again, and the hand on his leg relaxed some. _Some._

His admonishment for rejecting his touch made her feel terrible. She hadn't meant to hurt his feelings. He was just a lot, and Lydia had already dealt with a lot today. She could have let him paw at her. Feeling her up obviously made him happy, and it wasn't like it was something that took a lot of concession on her part. She was being a bad wife._ "I'm sorry,"_ she mumbled uselessly around the gag, right before he shot her full of **concentrated lust**. A muffled whine of pleasure tore from her throat, her eyes clenched shut, and alabaster flesh burned all over. Milky thighs clenched together beneath her skirt, trying futilely to rub herself to the completion she needed. _Good fucking God._ Now that she knew he could do this whenever he wanted, it made his ability in the bedroom all the more impressive. He didn't _have _to work to get her off. He did it because he _wanted _to.

The first smack, lenient as it truly was, shook to her the core. The reverberations of her fleshy backside tickled at her overly sensitized nerves, pushing her closer toward the precipice. Each consecutive smack was met with muted cries of pained pleasure. He wanted her to beg him, and she would have if she could have- _because he was right. She deserved this. He had earned this-_ but she couldn't. Her bodily reactions to his abuse were, at this point, beyond her control. As much as she wanted to give him what he wanted, Lydia wasn't going to last long like this.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

By the look he catches from above her, she's getting the picture now. He doesn't _have _to make her listen, he can worm into her mind and he doesn't _have _to wait for her to feel anything, he can _make _her feel it. And he can make her climax on a bit of juice, yes, but he likes to work for it usually. That's the fun. It works because she's open to him – his strange sort of ghostly powers operating on some perverse power of persuasion. But he doesn't do any of that because it's no fun that way. He wants her to lust for him because _she wants to,_ and he wants her to listen to him because _she wants to._

That being said, this is _very _fun, convincing her of the latter part of that. Sometimes he does need to _convince _– not all his games are exactly welcome. The juice is helping, of course, sometimes a mental mind-fuck can be nice – and it isn't long before the swirling of pleasure and pain that course through poor Lydia overwhelm her. A final _THWUAP _to her backside and her spine arches, a long, muffled groan bursting past the gag in her mouth as she climaxes. She's soaked her panties, and the ghost can feel her damp thighs against his suit pants after a moment.

_"Naughty girl!"_ Betelgeuse cries out, amusement edging his voice and he can't resist teasing her, "Dante's girls don't cum before their clients," whether or not that's actually a rule is irrelevant, he leans down into her ear and snickers, "Now I gotta get mine, sugartits. On yer knees."

He's been waiting for this for far too long. He's been achingly horny since he left her in the coffin they shared, and the memories of her abilities with her mouth have been floating in his brain for hours. He guides her down between his thighs insistently, releasing her hands from their invisible bondage as he does. The gag comes next, one hand unstrapping it from behind her head gently, the other undoing the front of his striped suit pants from where his arousal had been fitfully strained.

His engorged cock eagerly bursts forth from its confines, the tip of its ruddy head already drooling with thin droplets of pre. A heady chocolate scent wafts under her nose. He's still got _that _going on too, it seems. She goes right from the gag to his dick - he presses the wet tip to her sweet, soft, warm lips, moving forward with his hips in an attempt to ease himself forward into her mouth. "Open up, babes…"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

She couldn't have stopped from cumming even if she wanted to, which she didn't- until, of course, he told her that she wasn't supposed to. Luckily, he didn't seem all that upset about it. If all he wanted as retribution was a blowjob, Lydia considered herself fortunate. Blowjobs were easy, especially with the way he tasted. Just like the last time she did this, his demand was obeyed without a moment's hesitation, and she sucked down as much of him as she possibly could in one stroke. Her bed sat higher from the ground than her father's armchair did. Lydia had to balance on bent knees, gripping his thighs for purchase.

This was her first experience giving head as both a sober and willing counterpart. Thusly, Lydia took the time to experiment. She worked him slowly, keeping her mouth still for long moments at a time so that she could see _just how hard_ she was able to suck, which undulations of her tongue got the best reactions. It didn't bother her nearly as much as she knew it should have that he was treating her like one of his whores. He held her in higher regard than them. _He must have._ It's why he hadn't fucked her yet despite the numerous opportunities. Besides, as they had so excitedly pointed out, _she had the ring._

She would be his whore if that's what he wanted. Besides, it's not like this was _hard _or anything- so to speak. Lydia didn't need alcohol to lower her inhibitions or relax her muscles, not this time. She sucked him slow and sweet, like a runny fudge pop on a hot Summer day. Something she was doing must have been right because her husband was making absolutely atrocious noises. Distantly, she worried that her father or Delia might hear. Maybe he'd be willing to gag himself. _Not likely,_ she thought with a pleasant hum as he lathed her tongue with succulent cocoa-flavored precum.

Nothing to do but make him peak as quickly as possible, then. _Shut him up._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

As Lydia finds out, she can suck Betelgeuse's dick _pretty fucking hard._ In fact, the harder she does it, the more he curses and hisses filthy directives of encouragement. He's not interested in being particularly quiet about it, either, so Lydia does have some cause for worry. Shutting him up is difficult enough in normal situations.

And while he may indeed be treating her like a whore, she's _the best one he's had._ Her mouth is living warm, all natural, and it's not fair whatsoever in any realm living or dead that she can just _waltz right in_ and suck his dick like she'd been doing it for an eternity. Even though she was the one on her knees, she was quickly taking charge. At this point, the ghoul could care less. She was _prime rib._ She was _caviar._ And the slow, succulent time she was taking with him was making him writhe. This was agonizing. She works him into something of a state, where his need to get off is too burning, too achingly maddening.

He's going to see how far this little girl can go, how far he can push her. He already has learned in their previous encounter that she can swallow most of him, but greedily, he's determined he wants her to take the rest of it. He's forced to stop her attentions briefly in order to position her correctly for his little experiment, huffing in frustration as he does so, and he makes it as quick as he possibly can with strong arms, muscling Lydia about. Once arranged to his liking, he pushes into her mouth again with a hot groan, and then forces his dick rudely down her throat until he bottoms out against her lips impatiently.

_"Fuck…."_ He snarls at the sensation of her slick, tight throat clenching around him, "…that's ….aa—aah….a good girl. Swallow _all _of it…."

He braces his leg against her bed, gripping her soft flesh for stability hard enough to leave little bruises later, and begins to fuck her throat and mouth as fiercely as he can without injuring her. He's beyond most words now, reduced to cursing and moaning her name throatily, wet slapping accompanying. He can't last long like this, furiously humping against her face, the lower slope of his muscular gut dragging lightly against her chin. Her tiny red horns poke at him lightly, and the sight of them spurs on his orgasm. She doesn't have to endure her punishment long, with a gravelly, snarling noise he cums, forcing a wave of chocolate-flavored spunk down the back of her throat. His cock throbs and twitches, pulling from her just enough to let her breathe then, still gushing and oozing sticky threads of residue across her tongue. "Lyds…..it's…._not…okay_ that you know….how to suck….dick like that," he grunts, breathless despite having long ago lost the need to breathe.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia squeaked in surprise when he hauled her up by her underarms, only to drag her up and lay her out flat on the bed, her head hanging off the edge. The ends of her hair pooled on the ground beneath them. Then, he was _fucking her throat_ in a way she had previously thought impossible. She couldn't breathe, but just as before, she also couldn't bring herself to care. Not when he was groaning _her name_ like that, grabbing on to her "sugartits" over her school uniform and anchoring himself for the ride of his afterlife. If she was going to be his whore, she would be the _best damn whore she could be._ A pleasant warmth overtook her. It may have been from oxygen deprivation, but Lydia liked to think it was because she was a "good girl" again in his eyes. All she could do was hold onto his hips as he thrust into her and hope that he wasn't so far gone as to forget that she was only human. She could only do this for so long.

Fortunately, she didn't have anything to worry about. Apparently, he was under a similar pressure. He busted down her throat with a vicious snarl, squeezing her breasts so hard Lydia had the obscene thought that they might _pop _and gush blood and gore all over her blankets. His withdrawal from her person was a relief, but she still glowed with pride. After choking down the last of his cum and finally getting some oxygen into her lungs, she huffed out her uncharacteristically cocky, teasing response to his derision of her apparent abilities.

"What…" she panted, red-faced and teary-eyed, blinking up at his upside-down image from her inverted position. "… like it's _hard?"_

Suddenly, there came a series of taps against her bedroom door. "Pumpkin," her father's voice sounded meek, "can I come in?"

_"No,"_ Lydia snapped with firm resolution, glaring at the door, not even bothering to take the steps necessary to mend her disheveled appearance.

There was a tense pause. Betelgeuse didn't even speak, and she knew he must have been tempted to. "Please?" Her father begged brokenly. As upset with him as Lydia currently was, she wasn't _cruel._ With a putout sigh, she threw Betelgeuse a pleading look to which he scoffed, rolled his eyes, grumbled something inaudible, and then popped out of existence.

"Come in." The door crept open slowly, revealing a miserable Charles Deetz. He didn't dare pass the threshold. "Well?" Lydia spoke sharply when he did nothing but stand there awkwardly for a few moments. She had yet to sit upright and was still looking at the world from an upturned perspective.

"I- I thought I heard… I don't know what I thought I heard…" The unkempt man rubbed at his bloodshot eyes, gripping the doorframe with one hand as though he were on the verge of collapse. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. That was… It was very wrong of me to say that… but-" he began, as though he meant to provide some sort of excuse for his behavior.

"It _was _and you _should _be," Lydia interrupted icily, not at all interested in his half-assed attempts to alleviate his massive guilt. "Apology not accepted. Are you done?"

If possible, her father crumpled even more, as if she had physically struck him. Lydia felt nothing. "What's with the…?" He gestured vaguely around the top of his head, and she brought her own hands up, feeling at her horns. She'd honestly forgotten she was even still wearing them.

"None of your business," she answered with just as much pleasantness as she had all the other things he said. "Now _go away."_ Charles Deetz may have been a shark in the real estate market, but when it came to the women he loved, he was a yellow-bellied chicken. Tail between his legs, eyes downcast, he obeyed his daughter's demand and let her be. "Yeah, you're _really sorry,_ aren't you?" Lydia asked the door, slick, swollen lips curled with bitterness. "You worked _so hard_ on that apology. _Dick."_ Finally, she sat up, blinking rapidly at the sudden rush from all the blood that had flown to her head. "Beej," she inquired, voice soft again, looking about with rapidly fading disorientation, "are you still here?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse didn't really have words for how hot it was that Lydia hadn't even moved from her throat-fucked positioning to berate her father. It almost salved the very fact that he had intruded on them at all and invisibly, he chuckles low in his throat once the man leaves.

He re-appears stripe-by-stripe like a Cheshire cat, as Lydia queries out into the room. "Yeah yeah, yer other, _better _daddy's still here, babes," he replies, the rest of him oozing back into being fully visible. He had taken up a position right next to her while unseen. "Remind me not to _really _piss you off," he adds, his striped arms wrapping around the girl's slim shoulders warmly. Everything he had done up until this point was a scramble-repair, but he had managed it every time. Even by a hair.

He had not been kind to her this evening, either. So he lights up and observes her face, a clawed hand cupping her chin and tilting her head this way and that. That's a pretty face – flushed lips, slowly fading ruddy cheeks, and eyes red from tears. He places the cigarette to her mouth, still holding her until she takes it, huffing a cloud of slow smoke into the air. "Y'should _really _let me juice 'em," he says absently as he stares out at the door longingly, then turns to her accusingly, "Speakin' of, what kinda Bad Girl Bug bit _you?_ You've been nothin' but piss n' vinegar since I got home, 'spect you're calmed down now though. Fucking hell Lydia. You're a natural at that cock suckin' thing. But your 'tude - can't be your trip, you had fun at the Inferno Bar – somethin' Chuck said? By the way," he leans in, tone frank, "Don't _ever _listen to fuckin' Trixie. How d'ya think y'got stuck with me, anyway?"

He nuzzles into her dark hair, stroking it with his claws. "Also," he adds, grimy hand sneaking up her shirt, and she can feel him inhale, "Unless you want to go again, baby, I recommend y'take these little puppies _off."_ He taps the horns, then, "I have like a Pavlovian response to these fuckers, in case it weren't obvious."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Foul mood back with a vengeance, though Lydia now knew better than to take it out on her husband, his jokes were only met with lackluster pseudo smiles. She took the cigarette he offered and easily curled into his touch, tucking her legs over his until she was halfway in his lap. Obediently, she undid the knot that kept her horn-ribbon in place, idly setting the provocative accessory aside with one hand and sucking down nicotine with the other.

"He didn't mean it. He was drunk," she informed lifelessly, taking it upon herself to provide excuses for her father's cruel words. "And it's not like I've been being a great daughter lately." Stealing from them, smoking, drinking, fucking around with older men- _a grave understatement-_ running away, and smarting off… No. Lydia definitely deserved their ire. Earned it.

"He said…" She nuzzled her head under his chin, pulling close to his chest and avoiding eye contact all in one go. "He said I was going to turn out _just like my mom."_ The impenetrable wall that held her tumultuous emotions locked up tight fractured. There was a crack in her voice and wetness in her eyes that didn't come from rough oral sex. "My mom," she clarified, breathing deeply into his jacket, "who just died- and I mean _just died._ One month, two weeks, and three days ago. It was a heroin overdose." Tears streamed without mercy down her flushed cheeks, uncaring of her disgrace, but she didn't sob, or shake, or lose herself. Lydia had shed enough tears over her mother to be able to speak through them smoothly.

"They found her in a utility closet when she didn't show up for headcount. They don't… I don't know if it was intentional or not." Once the cherry hit the filter, Lydia tossed the cigarette butt to the floor shamelessly. Messes could be cleaned, and she wasn't willing to remove herself from the safety his arms provided. "That's why Adam and Barb are in the Neitherworld. They're checking for me, using one of their vouchers to see if she's… _working there._ They left the day I got the news. One month… two weeks… three days…" She allowed herself a deep, shuddering breath against him that could almost count as a sob if one were nitpicking.

"That vanity's all I have left of her," she gestured vaguely at the cherry wood antique. "It was the nicest thing we owned, and I got to keep it when I came to live with my father. I never…" Deeply ashamed of her actions, it took every ounce of bravery she could muster to continue confessing. "I _never _went to visit her in prison. I could have. All of her family lives in Moscow. She was _alone _here. She didn't have anyone and I couldn't even- I didn't-"

The wall shattered. Lydia had to muffle her wail of despair into his shirt, having worked herself partway under his jacket. This was the first and only opportunity she had ever had to voice the unspeakable;_ that her mother had committed suicide, would now be a slave for the rest of eternity, and it was _**all her fault.**

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

This calls for a second cigarette, is the first thing that swims through the ghost's brain. He lights himself one, and her a second, because at this point that was the immediate thing that needed attention as she cried into his jacket and hid from her pain behind his lapels. He doesn't reply for a good few moments, either. There's silence between them, but she can feel him gather her into his arms closer as if issuing some sort of unspoken apology. His grimy chin sets itself on top of her head gently after she's done speaking, having already been nestled underneath him for most of her explanation.

"So," he says, after a moment, "What yer sayin' is that I _can't _kill him for sayin' that sorta stuff. Can't do in your remaining sober parent. Gotcha."

The silence and broken crying he receives is answer enough, he only lets the pause happen for a beat before sighing out a large cloud of smoke. "Just sayin'….that's uh," he murmurs, slowly, "some pretty _heavy _fuckin' shit y'just laid on me, there, Lyds."

And it was.

Unbeknownst to her, he had just discovered the following things:

_Why _the Maitlands were in the waiting room and what they were doing there. So, demonstrating to them that he'd just ruined her life by marrying her and schtupping her while they were absent and unable to protect her was … great, good job. She was vulnerable and he took advantage. Of course he did. Second, that they were there for _this in particular_ – already probably upset over the idea of it, and then he had to come along and make it so….so much worse. _Oops_. They were gonna be _so pissed._ Way more pissed than he'd realized.

That his conception of the wealthy, middle-upper class lifestyle he was certain she was rebelling against with her "goth phase" was much more than that. A sexually abusive past, and a biological mother addicted to heroin. So much so that she died, in fact. And he had capitalized on every bit of it, confusing her submission and attachment to him towards a great number of things and not _vulnerable needy abuse victim._ He had taken advantage of her good nature, of her pliant, giving attitude. He had run over her and she had taken it like a "good girl" because of _this._

He had broken that vanity once when he assumed she'd gone and double crossed him, and been utterly puzzled as to her over-reaction towards it. He had blamed her hormones, the fact she was a woman, the fact she was a wacky angry teenager. But no, as it turns out, that portal he'd been using to slime his way in and out of her room as he pleased was a family heirloom of a sort. He almost felt bad for spying on her through it sometimes. _Almost._

She was crying on a man who had never been really in touch with his emotions. No, for many hundreds of years he had embittered himself to the world. He was a monster and this was living, verifiable proof that it remained true. He had no rules. He was dead. He was beyond reproach from the living. _Life screws you over, and then death does the same._ When he had said, aloud, in the basement that he had loved her, was it true? When he had thought to himself that he did, had he fallen in love with a girl who was unable to really love him back? Did she know what love really was, after all this time? Traditional values held that he hadn't shown her anything but lust and manipulation. So did he?

In as much as he could remember about what it was like, he loved her. So, what do people who love each other do in moments like this?

To be real, the ghost didn't really know. He'd always been trying to convince her of something else. Convince her that she hadn't gotten herself into even deeper trouble with a dead guy who had lost so many of his concepts of decorum many years back. He remembered how he described the Neitherworld to her in blunt terms when they first had entered into it.

Lydia can feel the thrum of something in his chest and she presses against him, perhaps his heart beating, once. Under the guise of being patient, or letting her cry, he had simply let these thoughts run through his mind slowly, trying to untangle so very much all at once. On top of all this, there was his own way that he had met his grisly end.

"It's not your fault," he finally says, "You can't…._fix_ somethin' like that."

She couldn't fix him, either. He'd already set himself up to be this way forever. He swallows, audibly, the odd sensation of acid burning his throat but he continues.

"Yer mom couldn't see the forest through the trees. Anyone who ends up that way….'s all pretty personal, but ….they just…can't see outside of themselves. I used t' be Juno's assistant, I think I mighta mentioned it," he explains, taking a slow drag on his cigarette, "I used to work in the ole dead-dog DMV right along the Maitland's problem-solving harpy. The reason I was her assistant was that I killed myself, but you probably inferred that."

He pauses, not knowing she already has this information, but it's pretty heavy for him, it seems, and he burps on a bubble of cigarette smoke, coughing once before pushing onwards, "The marks 'r pretty much gone now, but I took m'self out the auto-erotic asphyxiation method. Hangin'. Some people do it for boners, I did it because of a girl. Which I guess is sort of the same thing, if ya wanna be reductive. Anyway…. There was no one, not even that girl, who was gonna be able t'save me. There was more than just a …. broken ticker that led me to that place."

He sighs, slowly. This is uncomfortable, and he can feel the anxiety crawling under his skin threatening to reach up and choke him.

"You're a good girl Lydia. Your mom still loves you, that never changes even after you die. I've tried to change it, in m'self. But that stubborn bastard hangs on. Threatens you at knifepoint when you least expect it. Holds you hostage. Y'wanna know the irony of life n' death, babes? It's this: that girl I fell in love with wound up killin' herself about twenty years after me. The guilt got to 'er. She was my co-worker for the entire time I worked in that dump. Every time I'd clock in it was like someone stabbed me in the throat t'look at her. She forgot my name after a while. It was like dyin' every day for four hundred years till I weaseled my way out of there usin' red tape n' fine print."

He takes a slow drag on his cigarette and closes his eyes briefly. "The guilt got to you too, so we're married now," he adds, the finger points of his garbage fire of an afterlife not lost to him, "That bein' said….I can speed up the process and get the Maitlands to go see your mom. Tomorrow if you want. Nothin's ever easy, she may not be there at all. But I can force it with Juno. She can't ignore me anymore."

He pauses, and then, as if in summation of everything he's done to her, everything he's put her through, an apology for himself – saying the two words he vows constantly never to say to anyone, he says,

"I'm sorry."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_"Your mom still loves you, that never changes even after you die."_

"By the time she got locked up, she was so fucked in the head I don't know if she even remembers she has a daughter. I thought she might get clean in prison, but… she's _beautiful._ She never had trouble getting what she wanted from men. Iron bars didn't stop that." There were never any letters, no phone calls to contemplate rejecting. For all Lydia knew, her mother had forgotten her completely.

Her heart shattered to pieces for him as he disclosed the raw details of his time spent working for Juno. _To have to stare at the person you love, the person you died for, every day and know that they met the same fate as you… For them to not even recognize you… To forget about you…_

"Oh, Beej," she whimpered, pulling herself tighter against him with arms around his neck. Satin lips wet from her tears pressed to the flesh there, offering the only comfort she knew how. "Donny, uhm, he already told me. About how and why… but I didn't know about _that._ I didn't say anything because I knew you wouldn't like him telling me your business like that." She wished she had better words for him, the way he always seemed to have them for her, but she just didn't. Nevertheless, she would try. "I will _never _forget your name.** I promise.** I couldn't if I tried. I've thought your name every single day since you made me play charades to learn it." Cheeks heating, she dared to offer him yet another embarrassing secret. "I even, uh, _have a notebook with your name scribbled all over it._ God, you must think I'm so lame," she giggled nervously into his neck, amused and humbled by her own immaturity.

_"I can speed up the process and get the Maitlands to go see your mom. Tomorrow if you want."_

The tattered shreds that remained of her oversized heart dropped into her stomach. It hadn't even occurred to her to ask him for such a favor. It was too close, too personal. She wouldn't have been able to bear it if he mocked her for requesting such a thing.

"Really? You can really do that? _Oh, yes, please, I'd owe you forever._ I miss Adam and Barbara so much, and- and I need to know if she's there or not. I _need _to. You understand."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse avoids really responding to the first part of what Lydia tells him. He doesn't know to reassure her on that – the Neitherworld is an unkind place at first. Nothing to worry about when you're dead, no more problems. Just vices and indulgence. All he does after a moment is shrug, unable to offer her an answer. They'll find out what she remembers, exactly, at any rate.

"Yeah, Donny likes that story. He thinks it's terribly romantic. Or somethin'. It ain't. It isn't even _interesting,_ not t'me. He was probably tryin' to make you uncomfortable, he likes doin' that, too," the ghost sniffs, unimpressed. "I'm gonna crush his trachea later though. He's earned it."

Claws stroke through her long raven hair, and he smiles mischievously after she describes her little infatuation with him. "I had a vague notion that was the case," he replies, tucking his chin a bit to look down at her. He doesn't mention that he found out she had, to his surprise and shock, actually been curious about him for some time via her very naughty dreamscape. "Valentino, and all that. I make a pretty hot snake and an even hotter miniature. I wanted out so bad Lydia, you have _no idea._ It's probably for the best you didn't. I had _plans for you_ n' they weren't kosher."

The last bit is said teasingly, with a wink, as if she hadn't just been gargling every inch of his cock. "If it helps, I never forgot you either. I think I have some uh….draw…ings…." He trails off – 'doodles of roaches banging the hell out of her while more of them snapped her family into pieces with their mandibles, created while he was imprisoned' sounds rough, "…._nevermind._ If you think I'm gonna love you any less 'cause you're obsessed with me…" he shrugs, always the egotist.

He drops that last line as if she wouldn't hear it, too. Maybe she won't. His tongue slipped, and maybe he didn't notice it, either. He's preoccupied soon enough by her begging for his assistance, and he smiles nervously, looking a little out of place.

"Yea yea. I'll get goin' on it tomorrow….but….I mean….I may not come back with _awesome news_ so….emotionally maybe prepare yourself in advance. Just….sayin' that upfront, Lyds. I don't know what I'm gonna find. But I'll go to Juno's and I'll send your weird neo-farmer parents back at least while I take it up. Might take me some real-world time, even though I'll only be there for a couple hours at most. Here," he takes off one of his dirty watches and passes it over, "This will let you keep track of the difference."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_Love._ Did he mean it? He didn't seem the type to use words like that in jest. Donny told her he would never love again… _but everything that came out of Donny's mouth was a filthy, sugar-coated lie, wasn't it?_ Lydia granted her husband the mercy of pretending not to notice. She knew enough to know by now that he didn't like being called out, especially when it came to his emotions or lack thereof.

"You drew me?" She grinned, heart fluttering and tears drying at the prospect. "Can I see? You're a good artist. I like your little beetle doodles." The note he left her the morning after their sleepover was tucked away safely on her bookshelf where she could reread it and swoon whenever the urge struck her. "If you show me yours, I'll let you see my notebook- _but you can't make fun of me, it's seriously embarrassing."_

The watch he passed off to her was ancient. The face was cracked, the leather strap was dusty and far too long for her thin wrist, and the hands seemed to be moving much, much slower than the clock on her wall. The second's hand didn't appear to be budging at all. The hours were denoted with Roman numerals. There was an extra hour at the top, signifying that this was not an ordinary wristwatch. Lydia wasn't sure if it was even in working order, but she appreciated the gesture too much to question it and buckled the too-large band around her right arm unhesitatingly.

"Thank you," she imparted simply, meaningfully, looking up at him like he hung the moon just for her, before straining up to brush another sweet kiss across his stubbly, chubby cheek. "I mean it. I'll owe you. Anything you want. Name it, and if I can make it happen, it's yours."

Lydia was well aware that this was a _dangerous _offer to make but was too deeply grateful to give much of a damn. If all he wanted was her body, he would have had it by now, so she doubted he would use this for anything unsavory- _but… _There always seemed to be a _but _when it came to Betelgeuse.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Okay," mutters the ghost, dubiously. Lydia hasn't really taken in his warning, it seems about her mother. It was _her funeral,_ proverbially, though fulfilling her request of showing her any of his doodles is…. not a good idea either and it makes his stomach twist. Maybe he's got some from before his little incarceration that aren't as ah….Goya-esque. He _really _wants to see her weird notebook. His ego suddenly needs it to survive.

In the meantime though, he earns a kiss for the gift of his watch, which seems to surprise him. It's dusty, cracked and caked in graveyard schmutz, and he'd had it since he started working as a caseworker. Who would appreciate such a thing but Lydia? And then, in exchange, she makes a Devil's bargain. _Anything._ If he gives her more stuff, will she make more promises like that? The screaming imp that seems to live in his brain hopes so. She must …. _must _know by now that making that kind of a deal with him was a terrible idea.

"If you say so," he smiles, unable to help the wicked expression from his face, "I'm gonna keep that IOU, babes. I never forget anythin' owed t'me."

"Sec…," he requests after that and reaches up into the air as if to snatch something out of it. Papers appear in his hands, multiples, semi-crumpled and messy with coffee stains and other damage. But there they are, and he hands them over to Lydia as promised, looking vaguely uncomfortable. There are so many crude, nude doodles of a long black haired girl reading a tiny primitive handbook, including a diagram of why she's incredibly hot with a lot of red arrows pointing to her tits and ass, and a half-way finished poem she once read aloud while in the attic alone he had transcribed. There's a number of other doodles of his Very Good Ideas to scare the living shit out of her parents, and a small doodle of a very happy snake carrying her shirtless off to places unknown. They are childish and impulsive, and there's a bunch of roaches with crowns and "profit", "freedom" and knives scattered through the whole little narrative.

There's also, towards the back of all the silly nonsense, a very detailed and studied charcoal drawing of her. She had apparently fallen asleep on the plush chair the Maitlands had situated near the attic door, and the ghoul had taken some artistic advantage. It is surprisingly good and shows great patience in contrast to almost all of his other innate nature as if he had truly been studying her carefully. This one is especially crumpled as if he'd wadded it up in an effort to throw it out at one point and regretted the notion later.

The ghoul nudges her after forking them over. "C'mon. Weird fap diary to me, let's go," he makes a 'gimmie' gesture to her. "I showed you mine, you gotta show me yours."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_"I'm gonna keep that IOU, babes. I never forget anythin' owed t'me."_

"I'm not scared of you," she returned, teasing, meeting his wicked expression with an impish smile and narrowed eyes. "Worst case scenario you'll want me to do some gross sex thing- and really, if I ask nicely you'll back off. So go ahead and remember it. Just try not to request anything too foul, please." He may wear the pants in their relationship, but _Lydia held the leash._

A mess of stained, crumpled parchment suddenly materialized in his hands and Lydia eagerly accepted it when he passed it off to her. She slid from his lap to sit cross-legged on the comforter and spread them all out before her. Chin resting atop her knuckles, she took them all in with studious, lidded eyes, carefully roving across every line, each precise stroke. _He was so fucking talented._ Lydia didn't recognize the girl in his photos. _Or maybe she did._ She would have sworn she was looking at portraits of her mother if it weren't for the damning presence of the handbook in several of them. Then again, mommy dearest probably had her own copy by now. His sillier doodles earned big smiles that might have evolved into laughter were Lydia not struck by his more serious renditions of her.

"This is what I look like to you…?" Her tone was indecipherable. There was no way of knowing if she was charmed or insulted. In truth, she was _deeply flattered._ If his depictions of her father and Delia weren't so eerily spot on, she might have accused him of taking liberties with her appearance. She didn't have hips or breasts. Her eyes weren't that large, that captivating, nor her lashes that long. She just wasn't this beautiful girl he had drawn. There must have been some sort of mistake. Still, no matter how many times she blinked, there she was on paper in every shade of black and gray on the spectrum.

"You're gifted," she finally imparted quietly once she'd looked her fill, very gently gathering the old, delicate paper into a pile and setting it off to the side on her nightstand. "You should be proud. I'm, uhm," she began, searching her bookshelf for the damning notebook, "I'm not as good as you." Unable to look him in the eye, she passed it his way once it was located. "Don't expect much. This was mostly just something to keep me busy when I got bored at school."

Going in line with what she said, the first half of the college-rule notebook was filled with random notes and math problems, remnants of past schoolwork. The rest, however, was a treasure trove of deeply embarrassing material. It was just as she said; _his name, over and over again._ "Beetlejuice," all one word. Usually, it appeared in threes; block letters filled in with his signature stripes, flowing elegant calligraphy, harsh jagged letters stylized brutally. Many of them had curling, intricate borders that would have taken hours to detail properly. Of course, there were also beetles upon beetles upon beetles; ladybugs, scarabs, stags, weevils, fireflies, etc. They crawled all over the paper, infesting her notes as much as they had her mind.

Perhaps the most shameful additions were the occasional "Lydia Juice," drawn fluidly and prettily in the upper right corner of every other page. _Just to see what it looked like,_ she had told herself at the time. Now, she knew better.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"It might _not _be a gross sex thing," the ghost defends himself, looking very over-dramatically appalled with Lydia, "It might be _an embarrassing thing_ or _a scary thing_ or a _weird thing_ or _an embarrassing scary weird threesome_ which would cover all my bases now that I think about it—"

She was correct that she had the leash, but it led to a dog that pulls and yanks on his chains fitfully – just to get her to kick him occasionally. Jerk. As she turns serious about his drawings, his bout of mischievousness turns into a strange aloofness out of embarrassment, and he shrugs. "Y-yeah, that's what you look like. Or at least, it's what I see when I see you. I….had a lot of time to learn some things, yanno?" he definitely, definitely does not tell her that he started drawing hundreds of years ago in order to get some _realistic action_ out of a piece of paper.

As she compliments him, he shifts uncomfortably and mumbles, putting her off. He's never been much good at anything, and it seems like he's not particularly eager to start. Even though he was something that apparently simply _kept her busy at school,_ he eagerly accepts the notebook for a distraction himself, pulling out a pair of very self-important looking reading glasses. He takes a good look at the little journal studiously. He's quiet for a moment, flipping through the pages over and over.

"Babes, if we were at that point, I'd fuck you into the floorboards. This is the best thing anyone's ever made of me or my name. You like bugs, huh?" he's ready to torture her just a little, "You like it when I eat 'em? They remind you of me? You made me a veritable smorgasbord in these pages, hot stuff." He rolls onto his belly, journal in hand, and taps the corner where she has prettily spelled her name out including his last name as her own. "Lydia Deetz," he states, lowering his reading glasses so that he could peer at her from over the tops of them, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say _this marriage thing wasn't just about you feelin' guilty._ In fact," he adjusts the journal somewhat, "I think you wanted to marry me _cause you liked me._ A lot. These swirly letters say so. Oh – see, _this one_ has a _heart _over the "i's". I told ya. _Valentino._ I have an animal magnetism."

He's almost done, but he's having too much smug fun with this, "You _know,_ you coulda just summoned me and told me y'loved me and you wanted my hot, dead corpse insteada playin' _coy."_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia couldn't bear to watch as he looked through her notebook, well aware of the embarrassing things it contained. Instead, as soon as he pulled those glasses out, she made for her closet, ready to change out of her school uniform into something less hideous and more comfortable. In contrast to her previous behavior, the door was left open this time. Hiding anything from him was futile. The marks on her backside were proof of that.

"Okay, fine," she admitted grumblingly, face beet-red as she unbuttoned her blouse and let it drop to the floor, leaving her topless as she perused her wardrobe. "So I had a crush on you, so what? _It's not a big deal or anything._ Also, this isn't news!" She reminded him, dropping her skirt and toeing off her socks as soon as she found something suitable. Briefly, she was left in nothing but her _BOO!_ panties, but then she pulled a ripped up, oversized t-shirt over her head and stole the sight from him. It depicted the poster art for the original Psycho, and the neck had been removed completely, leaving the black cotton to slip down and reveal both shoulders. "It's not like you didn't already know…"

He _must have_ with the way he was able to play her like a fiddle, seducing her with ease. For those few seconds of almost-complete nudity, Betelgeuse was privy to all of the marks he had left on her in the past few days; dark purple fingerprints on her breasts and thighs, large handprints on each ass cheek, rosy, discolored nipples, and flowering hickeys on either side of her neck leading a trail down to her chest. A less informed individual might think she had been attacked.

Lastly, she thumbed down her soiled panties and pulled on a clean pair- simple, black, and cotton. No frills, lace, or silly designs. The dirty pair was quickly stuffed into the hamper before he could steal them. They were one of her favorites.

_"You know, you coulda just summoned me and told me y'loved me and you wanted my hot, dead corpse insteada playin' coy."  
_  
Lydia was going to drown in her mortification. "Stop it," she begged from the other side of the room, unable to be in any kind of close proximity to him while he was teasing her so mercilessly over such a vulnerable subject. "Come on, that's not fair! I- I didn't think anyone would ever see it, I was just _messing around…" _

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The ghoul looked up from the journal briefly intending to pursue more emotional torture, but once his eyes caught Lydia topless and left in nothing but her cute little underwear he stops in order to oogle her properly. She did look like something had certainly abused her thoroughly, and it made his lips curl in that awful sort of grin that revealed all the fronts of his grimy teeth and gums. The difference between Lydia and all the girls he'd been with while dead was the fact that her pale, living flesh recorded every time he had touched her or grabbed her too roughly, or made her skin flush with the weight of his hands, or sucked and bit her in various places a little too enthusiastically. Most of them were intentional, but some of them were simply because he was rotten, unapologetic and had little self-control.

_Her shirt is cute,_ he thought internally as she pulled it down over herself, and he grunts under his breath as he notes she never does seem to wear a bra. Better for him, really. "It's news _t'me,"_ he argues, "I thought you were just in it for the sex." He tucks the journal away somewhere because he's decided he owns it now since she hasn't immediately insisted on its return. "You're just _messin' around_ and I like _messin' with you._ How come you're always so _embarrassed _about it? I mean, I'm dirty, sure, and I'm dead, and I'm obscenely older than you but we knew that going into this thing. I _like _that y'like me. I only tease ya cause it makes y'blush and I like _that,_ too." He's rolled onto his back now, hanging partially off the bed in order to eye her lasciviously from an up-side-down position. He resembles what she looked like just a few moments ago in fact, except without any dick being pounded down his throat. As her panties slip down her legs he makes a viciously filthy sort of throaty noise, happily crossing his legs casually as if enjoying a show. She's only changing, but it's enough to turn his screws, or at least, make him react. "I mean, we don't gotta talk about our feelings, either. You _could _just sit on my face, beautiful, that communicates _plenty."_

She's had enough, and he can tell. The severe look she throws him is indicative of that, so he chuckles and backs off. "For real though, you're stuck with me for at least a couple more hours, Lyds. I'm not goin' back to the Patel's for a bit," they kicked him out for a while, really, he's a hard pill to swallow for anyone who isn't Lydia it seems, "We _could _watch the grossest horror movie we can find and eat snacks till we wanna puke. You got a VCR in this dump?"

It isn't really a dump. He just uses terminology like that to be evocative. This, as far as he was concerned, was _his house._ And since he was going to go retrieve the Maitlands, he could see the cusp of him truly being king shit right on the horizon. The Deetzes weren't going to stand for him, and he knew it. All was coming together, all he had to do now was wait.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_"You're just messin' around and I like messin' with you. How come you're always so embarrassed about it?"_

"I don't know," she mumbled, flushing impossibly darker as he called her out. "I guess…" she began, after taking time to seriously contemplate the question, "because I'm not _supposed _to like you." This was imparted quietly, guiltily, as if she were afraid she might hurt his feelings. "And before you start, I know exactly what you have to say," she cut in when he opened his mouth as if to interrupt her._ "We're not normal, it's okay to like what I like, don't listen to what other people have to say,_ yadda yadda," she rattled off points he had made to her in the past, rolling her eyes as if he weren't absolutely right. "But it's just not that _simple,_ okay?"

Then, he was offering his face up as a chair. _Scoundrel._ Her lips pursed, eyes narrowing. _She was the one uncomfortable with talking about her feelings, was she?_ He couldn't even make it through a serious conversation without working in a pass at her!

_VCR?_

"Oh, wow," she lauded, blush fading, staring in awe, "you _are _old. Let me introduce you to the newfangled contraptions of the future, Grandpa." Ignoring his foul expression, she grabbed a slim remote from her nightside stand and took a seat next to him on the bed. A click later, and her fancy smart TV came to life. It wasn't as large as the television in the home theatre, but it was substantial in its own right. "This," she began after navigating toward a little black and red box on the screen, "is _Netflix."_ He was sitting up now, gazing at everything she was doing with avid interest. This alone brought a pleasant smile to her face that she hoped didn't come off as mocking. It was sweet, honestly. Taking his hand, she worked the remote into his palm, navigating his large thumb across the directional pads. "These buttons will let you move up and down, or right to left- accordingly. If you go all the way up," she used his thumb to navigate to the search icon, "you can search for something specific. Like, _The Twilight Zone,_ for example." Still guiding his thumb, she started typing in the proper letters until the corresponding show popped up on screen.

"There. Get it?" He seemed a bit overwhelmed. Lydia's smile grew. "The little arrow button _there _will take you back to the main screen. I'm going to go make us something to eat. You go ahead and get acquainted with that."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

_Grandpa?!_ He was no cotton pickin' ancient Methuselah! Where did she get off?! He was in his prime! He was a _stallion!_

And he figured out how to make a television commercial all by himself, okay?! He was into _broadcasting!_ That commercial was _premium entertainment!_ The protest he was about to level with Lydia was readied on his scowling features, but his glinting, beady eyes catch the television screen instead. Flat screen. That's got some nice definition to it.

He sits up and leans forward, looking exactly like the perplexed, old man she described him as. Or, well, more like some sort of very suspicious, curious rodent maybe. His face was scrunched in concentration, all of his teeth showing, his brow rumpled in supreme focus. She takes his hand, then, and demonstrates _how to work a remote._ Okay. _He knows how to work a remote,_ thank you very much. He has another protest prepped, but the indignation is entirely squashed by the fact that she's teaching him as one would do for a trained monkey. And she's being very sweet about it, and her skin is soft, and he likes it when she touches him.

Also, this so-called _Netflix,_ as it turns out is great fun. She leaves him to it, and he's instantly and thoroughly distracted like a small curious child. New technology he picks up as quickly as he can and he's a quick study. He stares after her once she's gone completely for a good minute. _Make us something to eat has finally registered in his brain._ That's new and interesting too. She made him a sandwich once. And then he ate her for dessert.

He finds all sorts of movies and goodies. _They just let you access these now?_ Whatever happened to copyright?! Well, fuck it, this is great. He almost, _almost _forgets where he is and calls to her that he found Tod Browning's 'Freaks' – but, remembering their current arrangement he flops backward onto the bed with a grunt. Patience. Patience was not his strong suit. He decided instead to imagine filling Delia's shoes with delicious roaches. _Delicious roaches._

He could go for a roach. Or a fly. Or literally any insect at all. Worms. Spiders. He wagers that Lydia isn't making him some sort of dead bug soufflé. _Can he ask her to make that?_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Apparently, Delia and her father had taken her refusal to cook dinner seriously. When she came downstairs, they were in the formal dining room eating a sad little pizza. The air was tense. No one spoke. What little conversation that was being had before Lydia was present on the first floor dissipated into nothing. Unfortunately, this wasn't much different from how things usually were without Adam and Barbara around. Without them, it was almost as if the past two years hadn't even happened. They were right back to square one, performing their family act one scene at a time just as they had in Manhattan. However, Lydia was now far more in tune with her role of "the problem child."

Once delicious smells started wafting from the area, her silent parents made their retreat. Lydia drew her own smug conclusions as to why. Good. Now they wouldn't notice _how much_ food she was cooking. She already had biting retorts ready for them in case they dared to question her, but was glad she wouldn't have to use them. Enough cruel words had been spoken today as far as Lydia was concerned. In perfect silence, she sauteed mushrooms and onions, baked two golden potatoes, and lastly seared two thick steaks in butter, garlic, and rosemary. The Partridge Family was stuck in her head, so a few classic notes may have been hummed into the air as she moved about the kitchen with grace and poise. Cooking was something Lydia enjoyed very much, one of the few things she and Barbara had in common. Ordinarily, Lydia would only cook on weekends while Barbara handled dinner on school nights, but they always helped each other.

They would be back soon, thanks to Betelgeuse, and maybe- _just maybe-_ things with her mother could be repaired. Soon, Lydia thought with a near giddy smile, plating up their food. A stray dead fly on the windowsill caught her eye as she slipped her husband's steak onto his plate. _Hm._ Lydia's appetite wasn't at all wetted by the sight of it, but maybe Betelgeuse's opinion would differ. Did he even eat dead bugs? Or did he prefer them live? Well, she was going to find out. As an afterthought, the crunchy little thing was placed atop his steak like a garnish so that he could partake or toss it, whatever he wished. Then, very carefully, she balanced two plates, a glass of lemonade, and a bottle of beer for him in her short arms. Opening her bedroom door proved a bit of a challenge, but nothing she couldn't handle.

"Here, take this one, it's yours," she offered his plate pleadingly once she was through the door, the tiny fly atop his steak the only things setting them apart. "This too." The beer was handed off. No longer afraid of dropping all her hard work, Lydia settled onto bed next to him and finally took a moment to take in what was happening on screen. Whatever he was watching was black and white. A woman with no legs waddled across the screen. "What is this?" She inquired, interest piqued. Those were some pretty good special effects for something this old.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse scrambles back up into a sitting position as Lydia comes bundling through the door, his strange reverie interrupted. She hands him an enormous plate of delicious smelling fresh steak, replete with a fat dead fly garnish atop it – mushrooms, onions, the works. And a beer.

She sits down next to him so casually after that, as if she hadn't done anything at all. He looks at her for a long time after she asks her question, almost to the point of it becoming awkward. Slowly, suspiciously, he cuts into his steak. Blood seeps out underneath. _Rare._

How?

How can such a simple thing for her make him feel so many things at once? She's asked him something. Something about the movie, but his gut is all twisted up and he can't seem to answer her right away. He's startled. Spooked, maybe. Maybe in that instant, like a lightning bolt, he's realized she's just done something specific in regards to their marriage that a _wife _would do. You don't need to feed a ghost. He doesn't require any sort of viable sustenance. But she did it because she cared. She even added a fly. A FLY.

He's staring. He knows he's staring, and he knows that some sort of unearthly color has risen to his cheeks, sort of maybe like a blush, sort of maybe like he's attempting to undergo some form of secondary rigor mortis. _Snap out of it, Betelgeuse!_

"'S….f…The…uh," he says, intelligently, and then in a rush he mumbles, "Tod Browning's _Freaks."_

He's almost afraid to eat this.

"It's uhm," he adds, trying to sort himself, "A ….revenge story. N' those aren't special effects. Those're the real deal."

He finally can't resist and starts stuffing steak into his mouth, fly included. He makes a singular noise that might be a groan, or a moan, or some combination of a _very heated noise_ of enjoyment. The look on his face clearly indicates he hadn't intended to make that noise, either. Beer! Beer will fix this! He flicks the bottle open with a claw skillfully and takes a long, deep swig. _Sweet blessed nectar, save this man from himself._

"Dinner's good," he remarks, after that, simply. He looks at her askance, more steak halfway shoveled into his gob. "…._what?"_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Oh, good," she smiled in response to his compliments to dinner, already having cut half of her own steak into neat, bite-size pieces. "I wasn't sure if you like rare or not. I can throw it back on for a few minutes if you'd prefer it more done…" Her nose wrinkled in distaste at the idea of ruining a perfectly good steak like that, but then she trailed off, having looked up to see he'd already jammed half of it down his filthy gullet. "Nevermind." Clearly, he approved of the dead fly garnish. Maybe she could put up a trap for next time, so she had a more reliable source.

At the rate he was going, he was done long before she was; leaning back comfortably into the pillows, toeing off his boots, tossing his jacket, and unbuckling his belt to offer his substantial gut a bit of relief. A post-meal cigarette was lit and he continued nursing at one of Adam's fancy IPA's like a big, fat, content cat. Lydia was pleased. Even though he hadn't said much, she felt accomplished, _appreciated,_ like she'd done something very, very right. The movie was good, too. Even though she was coming in late, it didn't take her long to pick up on the plot.

Lydia didn't need a lot to eat. She finished all the mushrooms and onions, a fair portion of her baked potato, and only half the steak. "Bubby," she called quietly out the window after issuing a soft whistle to get his attention. "Come get dinner." Immediately, he snapped to attention from the edge of the driveway and came bounding her way, coming to a screeching halt right under her window._ "Sit." _The gentle beast caught her scrapped steak between vicious teeth before it could hit the ground and gobbled it down within seconds._ "That's a good boy. Who's mommy's sweet precious? Yes, mommy misses you, she does. I'll come down for you later, I promise."  
_  
She knew she didn't _have _to provide food for him. Since his appearance, wild rumors had sprung up all over Winter River concerning the ravaged deer carcasses discovered in the woods by shaken hunters. Words like "werewolf" and "chupacabra" had been thrown around. There was even a fuzzy photo of him featured in this week's issue of The Winter River Gazette. Lydia didn't think it adequately captured how handsome he was. In short, Bubby was more than capable of taking care of himself, but that wasn't going to stop her from babying him.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The look the ghoul shoots her at the _thought _of putting the steak back into the oven, or of _taking any of it away from him_ indicates his feelings very clearly about that. Like a jealous mutt, he guards it and continues to devour everything on his plate.

After releasing his satiated gut and oozing back onto his elbows, cigarette lit, far too content for his own good, he eventually becomes lost in thought for a moment. Perhaps, just perhaps, this terror still clenching his muscles was the simple fact that _he had it good._ He could _get used to this._ Things were finally _lookin' up_ for the B-man after a relatively hard-scrabble afterlife of his own making. It came in the form of a sixteen-year-old girl and a cockamamie plan to marry her for his freedom. _Why did this work out?_ It didn't make any sense, but the ghost was through questioning it for now. It was giving him a headache. Maybe, just maybe, he could actually relax and stop questioning whether or not he actually _deserved it._

His wife feeds the dog, the dog that doesn't need feeding, and for a second, things are very still and peaceful in his mind. He doesn't even complain that she's spoiling the damn thing. He squirms until he rucks himself up against the pillows on her bed, crosses his legs, and puts his arms behind him, smoking silently. The clamor, the screaming, the bad ideas that haunted his mind were quiet, and so was he. _Freaks _was a fun movie, this bed was cozy, and he finally had _almost _everything. "If there's anything this movie taught me Lyds," he remarks aloud after a moment, gesturing with his cigarette, "It's don't piss off someone who only comes up to your knee, and don't fuck with a guy who doesn't have no legs."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Common sense and decency _should _have taught you those things," she shot back teasingly, still leaning half out the window. Harassing the physically disabled was a pretty clear and obvious "no-no" in Lydia's book. "But I suppose I should just be happy you're even capable of learning lessons."

A naughty smirk was shot over her shoulder. Lydia was well aware that she was pushing it. However, she was capable of learning lessons as well, and if the events of the day had taught her anything, it was all she would get for mouthing off was a rough romp with her husband. Maybe a spanking if she really fucked with his fragile ego.

"I like this movie," she informed, sauntering his way before stealing the beer right from his hand and downing the last couple inches. "Freaks are the best." A face was made at the sour taste. _"Ugh._ Beer is gross. I wish Adam would develop some better tastes. You liked it though, right? You seem like a 'beer guy' to me." This was _definitely _not an insult or reference to his cuddly beer gut. Not at all.

Lydia was feeling cocky. _Uninhibited,_ but not by the scant amount of beer she'd stolen. Things had very much gone her way today. Delia and her father had been adequately put in their place, she was confident that Betelgeuse cared enough for her to not cause her real harm, and Adam and Barbara- _her favorite people in the world-_ would be coming home soon. _Everything was perfect._ It was time to make things a little _more _perfect.

"But," she began, climbing into his lap, settling her soft, cushy thighs on either side of his hips, "I missed the first twenty minutes." Despite her faux disappointment, it was clear Lydia couldn't give any less of a damn. "That's no way to watch a movie. You have to watch it title to credits or, in my opinion, you haven't really watch it at all, have you?" This was a rhetorical question. Pale hands toyed with his tie, trying to figure out how to undo it properly. It took longer than she was happy with and, frustrated, she gave up, crossing her arms and sitting upright with a pretty little scowl turning her lips. "Why do you wear that stupid thing? Take it off, I can't figure it out…"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"I'm highly receptive to pain-based learning, Lyds. A guy whacks your kneecaps with an aluminum bat 'cause he's only three feet tall, y'don't forget it," comes the matter-of-fact reply. Betelgeuse catches the look she throws him, but the one he returns is _dubious._

It becomes even more dubious as she whisks his beer from his hand and polishes it off. _What was that?_ Subtly dropping to him that this was Adam's beer as if he was some sort of cuckold in his own house in some strange fashion; as if he'd already taken the title of _gets to do what he wants because this is Betelgeuse's house now._ Woah.

She climbs into his lap. _Woah. WOAH._

Is she hitting on him? She is _definitely, absolutely_ hitting on him. His face is as surprised as ever, his expressive eyes so very wide, but he is certainly not unhappy. A steak dinner and now this? Fuck, he'd suck Barb's tits if it meant he gets the royal treatment like this all the time. He's not really listening to what she's saying after a minute, because her thighs are silky and warm and enveloping his hips – something about the movie, and missing some part of it. It's all become a mushy blur, because she's fussing with his tie ineffectively, trying to get it off.

Instead of replying, he gently works her folded, annoyed hands back into it and shows her how it's done, as if returning the gesture from earlier with the remote. "I wear it 'cause I look good in a suit," he smiles, just a _little _smug, his voice thick with a low gravelly intonation to it, "and it frustrates horny lil' girls named Lydia."

Upon getting the tie off between the two of them, he pulls her towards him by her shirt, those cadaverous eyes of his dark with intent. He puts her hands on his shirt buttons next as if telling her silently to keep undressing him. Once her fingers are working his buttons, of course, he pulls her against him by the back of her head, capturing her lips hungrily with his own in order to start a very slow but very desirous make out session. His tongue plies hers, unapologetic in his need now, no longer tentative or coy with her explorations. His hands then are free to crawl up her thighs like eager little spiders, holding her firmly against him for a moment by the tops of them, pulling her downwards as he rolls his hips upwards hard, dragging the crotch of his pants heatedly against the crux of her thighs.

She never has to do much to get him wanting – but this is quite different, she started this, with a purpose. Her desire alone for him, the moves she made, instantly sprang the boiling furnace of his lust to life and he was determined to eat this sexy dessert slowly. He isn't entirely sure if he can resist taking her the entire way this time with her assertiveness egging him on – his lofty plans seemed so trivial in comparison to her wants – but still, she deserved so much from him for a first time. Decisions, decisions. _Was she ready for him?_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_That's more like it._ Seducing him was cake. Lydia returned his kisses distractedly, unquestioningly following his wordless instructions to fumble with his button-up until it was completely undone and untucked from his pants, made loose by lack of belt. His hands felt so good sliding up her legs, slowly and purposefully, as if savoring each inch of exposed pearlescent flesh- _just for him._ Then, they tightened just so, pulling her _down _as he pushed _up._ They had played this game before, but that had been rushed and messy. This was different. Now, they had time and comfort to enjoy each other properly. Lydia was eager to take advantage, pulling him up by his broad shoulders until the dusty button-up could be pushed off and away.

All he wore now were the striped pants- _tented, zipper straining-_ and a sweat-stained wife beater. She had to break away from their heated kissing in order to tug that over his head. Blindly, she flung it across the room as well, leaving it to crumple to the ground along with his tie. Lydia _loved _his body. She knew it was weird and "she wasn't supposed to", but she didn't care. He was a being of opposites; soft and hard, fat and muscular, dead and yet _oh so alive._ His moss-infested chest hair was something she especially enjoyed. The way it felt brushing against her chest when they cuddled in his coffin once upon a time was _delicious._ The memory alone made her want to replicate the experience.

Impatiently, she pulled away from his greedy lips to strip her oversized shirt away and drop it over the edge of the bed. Then, they were attached at the mouth again, each trying their best to kiss the other into submission. Who would eventually be the victor remained unclear.

_"Betelgeuse," _she moaned thoughtlessly as he moved down to nibble at her neck, hips rolling insistently, wiry hair _scratching _her over-sensitive nipples just the way she liked. "I think…" She trailed off into another high-pitched, breathy noise as he wrenched her down by her ass, claws carelessly digging into the cushiony flesh there. "I think… I'm _ready."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

She was undressing him, and it was like no one had ever done it to him before. Or at least, not in any capacity he could remember that was similar to this. This real, physical sort of pulling his clothes off. He could just poof them, he knew, but that would take every ounce of fun out of the stripping, the handling, the way her fingers felt as they pulled and tugged at his vestments. He wouldn't be able to experience her hunger for him, and _oh was it good._

She gets his wife-beater off and he lets go a positively filthy noise as she tosses it across the room. Every atom of his body wanted this, her enthusiasm spurned him on. It was every kind of wrong, indeed, their forbidden love – old, young, dead, alive, good, chaotic. So many taboos at its very core, all ready to be indulged. Though, as she presses her soft, lithe form against his larger frame again from yanking off her own top - so eager for him, his strange, moldering body and everything that came with it, it felt _oh so right._

She can feel him shudder underneath her as she swiftly comes back to continue the fitful battle of lips and tongue, his self-restraint slowly chipping away. Her breasts pushed against his chest, soft, warm, pillowy things, far too delicious for their own good. Contrasting his own strangely textured skin, his masculine thatches of hair, she was like a silken dream. He wanted to eat her alive, and then some. The burning ache that pooled between his legs suddenly turned into an overwhelming rush of heat as the words she groaned into his ear reach his brain.

_"I think….I'm ready."_

Dear God, it's me, Margaret. How could he resist that? How was he supposed to? Every part of his body wanted it. In response, and almost for an instantaneous need to relieve the pressure of his trapped dick, he shuffles his hand down between them both and yanks open his fly. He grunts deep into her neck as his cock is sprung free from the prison of his striped trousers, rutting up between her thighs rudely, immediately gunking her panties with sticky smears of precum.

"….you _sure _baby? I …" he breathes, and she can feel him swallow heavily against her collarbone, trying to formulate words, "…had this…whole idea with rose petals, see…."

None of that made much sense. Her bedroom, taking her virginity from right under her parents' noses…that was good enough, wasn't it? They were safe here. This seemed like a good a time as any, right? He at least has the good sense to warn her, though. "….mmnh…beyond that, though…" he huffs, his hands gripping at various parts of her still, as if determined to touch every inch of her sexy, heated body, "…once I get goin', I ain't gonna be able to stop I don't think…"

As if to _attempt _to stop himself, or keep her from fully answering him, he rolls his weight onto her like a crocodile in a river. He did have an entire set-up planned, and even though he was so ready to fuck her stupid and then some, he was hoping on one scrap left of hope that he could possibly… _possibly _hold out. She's pinned under his weight, then, his gut pushing into her flat stomach as he heatedly begins to dry hump her. It was so close to fucking, and all he would have to do is tug that tiny, sopping bit of her panties aside with a claw if he wanted to. His thighs are surprisingly strong, and they hit her softer, slimmer ones underneath him with unapologetic, animalistic slaps. His hands dig into her shoulders, his own pushing the undersides of her knees downwards, bending her underneath him, her calves wrapped around his neck. She's flexible, he knows, and he's testing it now. That, and he's giving her a good taste. He curses, and curses, the entire frame of her poor bed shaking with his force, his cock riding against the soft, slick mound of her sex rapidly. Names for her tumble from his mouth, along with incoherent noises jumbled together. If she can handle how fiercely he's ramping up, she might _actually _want him to follow through. But he'll know soon enough.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"I'm not a-" _virgin,_ she managed to gasp out as he hammered her into the comforter, leaving a little Lydia shaped indent. "I don't- I don't need that."

He was so heavy, so _hungry._ An unyielding weight on her shoulders kept her from pulling him down into another suffocating kiss. Instead, he hovered over her, grunting like a beast, dark eyes gleaming over her. They flickered indiscriminately between her face and breasts, eating up her twisting expressions and the way her chest bounced and jiggled with each forceful thrust. She used the leverage that hooking her legs over his shoulder provided, working herself against him feverishly.

Lydia didn't care about his plans. She didn't need silk sheets or violin music. She didn't need to hear that he loved her, whether it was true or not, and she _definitely _didn't want him to stop. Made fickle with lust, his bride was ready to throw caution to the wind in order to achieve the high she knew he could- _would- _give her.

_"I want you," _she crooned as he bore down on her, slamming down and then grinding with fervor. Black-painted nails bit into his muscled biceps, leaving tiny little crescent-shaped marks in the mottled flesh. It would be so easy to reach down and slide the damp crotch of her panties aside, take hold of him and position him properly for his next thrust. But his movements were so harsh, so fast she wasn't sure he would pause long enough to let her. That and Lydia wanted him to **take **her. She had balls enough to make the first move. _He should have balls enough to finish it. _

Frivolous with desire, she took no notice of their increasingly loud sounds of passion or the way her bedframe was pounding against the wall. Delia Deetz, however, was of an observant frame of mind tonight. A knock at the door stopped Lydia cold._ "Fuck,"_ she whispered reflexively, pausing all movement, head snapping toward the sound. The knob mechanism laid horizontally. _It was unlocked._ Just as rapidly, she was back to gazing at her husband- with a different kind of desperation this time. Judging by the wicked shine that remained in his dark orbs, glazed over with lust and mischief, she would find no mercy there.

"Lydia, dear…?" Her stepmother inquired, sounding quite perturbed. "Is everything okay in there? I heard… _noises."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"You _are,"_ comes the breathlessly growled reply. To him, she was, and the rest of the world's opinion on it could go suck on a wood chipper. But her pleading was not falling on deaf ears.

Quite the opposite, in fact. She was melting his already shaky resolve with a heat gun, and every time his hips thrust downwards he was shaking. She did want him, every part of it, and who was he to deny her? As her smooth calves clenched around the taut muscles of his thick neck and she thrust against him with vigor, he had pretty much made up his mind already.

_"I want you,"_ comes the crooning nail in the already rickety coffin. There's suddenly a sheen on his skin as if he were sweating…which he must be. She wasn't thinking clearly but now he wasn't either and being who he is, he wasn't about to start.

His movements were indeed harsh as if to prevent her from taking this scenario into her own hands. Denying her anything was not in his repertoire though, and he can't resist her pleading for long. She was grabbing him, her nails digging into his arms and causing delicious prickles of pain. "Lydia….." he breathes, his voice soaked with its own heated, gravelly plea.

His hand drifted downwards towards his cock, hips still working feverishly, tongue rimming dry lips. He was going to fuck her so hard she wouldn't walk straight for a week. He's almost at the point of clawing those sweet little underthings aside when…

_"Lydia Dear….?"_

Lydia freezes like a deer in headlights and so does he. The enthusiastic noise immediately ceases, and his eyes go wide. This was better than any scenario he could have imagined - not only was it a horrendous rush to _almost get caught_ by Delia Deetz, she had no idea what he was doing to her poor daughter behind the door. It was pure, hedonistic, sick evil and it flooded his brain with sweet dopamine.

Lydia looks at him like a forlorn, terrified animal ready to panic, and is only met with jade glittering eyes that spoke volumes. No, she would receive no help here. Instead, a purely vile grin splits onto his face and his meaty palm pushes over her mouth, clamping down across her entire face nearly. She was so small under his broad mitts it was easy to do, and he leaned into her ear and whispered,_ "For old time's sake, babes,"_ before leaning back up and gleefully answering Delia in Lydia's voice.

He once again effortlessly imitated her, throwing her voice. She sounded positively vicious and altogether done with Delia intruding on her. "Worshipping Satan with porn and a vibrator is a _loud endeavor_, Delia! Now kindly _fuck off,_ I'm _busy!"_

Just to make sure Lydia isn't too upset, or at least to distract her from being so, his other hand is now very busily angling his cock against the slick forbidden entrance he'd denied himself for so long. He pushes forward ever so gently, working in just the tip, just to feel her strain and arch silently underneath him. Her muffled struggle is electric to him, as is the warm, living, pulling muscle of her inner parts as it clenches around just the very first inch or so of his dick. He's shuddering, but the wicked look on his face remains until they're both sure Delia is long gone. She feels like heaven. His eyes close briefly as he tries to scrape together any semblance of self-control.

Once they are both sure of Delia's embarrassed departure, he pulls out with an almost angry growl. "Not today babes. Soon." his hand pulls off her mouth, "I need t'be able to _wreck ya_ without any worry 'bout the sex Gestapo."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_"You are." _

His panting insistence struck deep in her chest, right into the beating, pulsating organ that pumped her blood. It made perfect sense. Such a notion had never occurred to her. _Of course, he saw her as a virgin-_ technicalities aside. She may as well have been compared to him. Despite her _used _status, he knew everything and she knew nothing. Lydia was reminded of this with sharp clarity every time they tumbled into one of these trysts.

A clammy, meaty palm slapping over the bottom half of her face upon Delia's intrusion inspired an internal panic, and the downright villainous grin distorting his dark features did nothing to help. _Oh, God. _Anything could happen now. The jig was up. He was far too riled, too gone in his excitement to _behave _for her. While she wasn't paying attention, her grip on the leash had slipped and now the dog was free to run wild.

_"Worshipping Satan with porn and a vibrator is a loud endeavor, Delia! Now kindly fuck off, I'm busy!"_

Fortunately, it seemed all he was interested in doing was pissing on the neighbor's doorstep. _Thank everything that was good and holy in the universe._ That could have been so much worse. He even managed to scare Delia off. In all reality, that wasn't too far off from what Lydia probably would have said given the freedom to speak, though she likely would have taken a less crude route. The despised redhead really should have been _minding her own fucking business._ Why was she sticking her upturned nose into Lydia's affairs instead of working on increasing her valium tolerance? _Bitch._

There were more pressing matters to attend to. While he spoke, imitating her voice with obscene perfection, the blunt head of his cock pushed into her, forcing her sleek, tight walls open to accept it. Lydia _writhed,_ sinking teeth into his filthy palm at the overbearing sensations. It was so _strange and unusual,_ but undeniably wonderful. _Too much,_ and yet nowhere near enough. The hand muffling her cries pressed her down punishingly into the cushions- _thrilling her, pushing dark and forbidden imagery into the shadowier portions of her brain-_ while the other fisted his cock in a vice grip right beneath the tip, keeping himself from thrusting all the way home. Slow and overconfident, he jostled it within her, swirling little circles like a brush into paint, as if with the intent to open her further to him. It was torture.

But then, unexpectedly, he withdrew completely, freeing her mouth and collapsing down to growl out an explanation into her neck. _Not today._ It was disappointing, but knowing what she knew now, Lydia would not push him again. After all, wasn't it she who insisted that if he was going to seduce her, he would do it properly? Dates and romance and the like? She would let him have his virgin fantasy sans argument. He deserved it.

"Fine," she pouted, swallowing the pleas that she knew would get her what she wanted. "Just don't-" she shifted and her clit slid along the smooth flesh of his rigid cock for the first time, absolutely _nothing _between them. _Oh, this was so much better._ Lydia would never settle for humping with barriers ever again if this was what she was missing out on. "Don't _stop."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Thank everything she was accepting, though her pouting tore at him just a little. _She had no idea_ how difficult it was to hold himself back. It was a feat Betelgeuse wasn't just shamelessly having his way with her in the grossest fashion he could imagine right now. Upon begging him to continue, though, he huffs and drags his tongue across her petite earlobe. "Don't worry sugartits…I won't leave y'hangin'…." Oh, waitaminnit….she shifts, and oh _fuck _that was nice. Even though he wasn't inside of her, the flesh of her folds was caressing him, enveloping him nonetheless into warm, wet heat. His head nudges her clit and he shudders. That's _real good._

No barrier was definitely better than anything they'd attempted previously and, upon chasing Delia off and reclaiming his prize, Betelgeuse is back to pursuing this at a less frantic pace. This was something that needed exploring, and indulging, and despite his overwhelming hunger he had backed off the peak of the challenge in this tempting situation. He could control _this._ He shifts their position easily then, pulling Lydia into his lap, tucking her against him so her legs splay out over his hips, rolling hers so that the crux of her heat is pushed against the throbbing ridge of his drooling cock. She can work at him as she likes, now, and he can suck at her tasty, pillowy soft breasts. His tangled mess of hair tickles under her chin, his broad hands wrapping around to grip her perfectly smooth little ass. Each cheek fits into his meaty palms perfectly, nearly, and he squeezes at her hungrily.

"Ride me, baby…show me how much y'wannit…."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Just- mm- just a minute-" Awkward and smooth all at once, she pulled one leg in tight to her chest in order to slip the soaked cotton of her underthings off without having to disengage from his embrace. The stubborn elastic still clung tight around one thigh, but now she wouldn't have to bother with adjusting them and could free her hands for better endeavors, like scratching his back and tangling in his hair. Patiently, he devoured the hyper-sensitive peaks of her breasts, made so from his previous abuse, and all the other flesh around it.

Meanwhile, her hips twisted in a sweet, fluid rhythm, eager to prove herself to him. She could be sexy. She _earned _those horns, even though they weren't currently gracing the top of her head. Slick and easy, she slid up and down, fluctuating pressure as it suited her. One leg worked its way around his back to press her socked foot into the base of his spine, leading him into the dance, while the other hooked around his elbow to hug his bicep. Slim pale arms hugged him tight to her chest, encouraging the beast to feast until he was sated. A soft, flushed cheek found rest on the wiry pillow of his hair while she murmured encouragements. She wanted to make him feel good with words the way he always seemed to do to her. He made it look so _easy._

_"I want you to fuck me so bad,"_ she confessed in bolder terms than she ever had before, pulling tight, working his thick cock along her small netherlips, puffy and glossed with precum and her own sap._ "But I can wait for you… You're right… This is _**better**_."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Ah. That was better - no more annoying undies to keep trying to move aside. Smart girl. Lydia puts those carefully manicured nails of hers to good use, too, pulling very contented, very aroused noises from him whenever they run along his mossy back or through his disordered hair. He likes that, and if he had the capacity to achieve true goosebumps anymore her attention would have caused them. As it stands, it sends prickles of happy sensation along his skin and scalp. He likes that.

Muffled gruff noises emanate from the depths of the ghoul's throat into Lydia's chest as her hips tortuously twist, and dive and rise. His own push upwards, meeting her undulations with his own in careful counter motions, his jade eyes arched upwards to watch her writhe atop him. He hisses as the sensation of that little sock against his back. One of these days, he's going to do awful things to those adorable feet of hers - just like he promised himself when he first got a real good look at her from head to toe.

He lets go a filthy sort of growl as she murmurs to him, his clawed hands moving around to her hips in order to steady her as his thrusts became more insistent. He responds well to hearing _that _sort of thing from her apparently. "I'm gettin' that idea…." he chuckles, making a pleased noise as her cheek tucks into his filthy mass of hair, slurping at her poor, ruddy nipple further, mumbling around it, "But, baby, you ain't waitin' for _me._ I'm waitin' for _you._ I coulda done everything to ya way back in that Cave of Convenience or at the movies, or in yer basement, or right _now _but I think you like…." he moves his snake-like tongue up Lydia's collarbone, "…._romancth_ n' stuffth."

Betelgeuse retracts the tongue since it makes him sound somewhat ridiculous and he grabs her just a little more fervently. He's not going to last long like this, but he's determined to get her there before he does. Not that it particularly matters, he has no refraction period so to speak and he could frottage her all day, he just _likes _watching her cum. In the meantime, he's making an absolute mess of her thighs and nether regions - apparently, he is quite the _enthusiastic _producer. "I wanna do it right for ya sugar. But when we do get there n' I've got you buttered up n' hot, _rrrh…_.I'm gonna fuck that tight lil' pussy of yours till yer screamin'. My juice can keep the party goin' for days if that's how hot it makes yeh. All I wanna do is put this big fat cock in you, _believe me."_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_You could _**not **_have,_ she wanted to argue just to be disagreeable, despite the knowledge that he was absolutely right. He could have had her seven ways from Sunday by now. Still, the truth remained that it was Lydia who was waiting for him, no matter how he saw it. Once upon a time, this was not the case, but things had _very quickly_ changed. All she had to do was tilt her hips just right, beg him to _poof _them to his coffin, and bam. Problem solved. Marriage consummated. As it was, Lydia wanted him to have the dating experience too. He would never admit it, but he dug the "romance n' stuff" just as much as she did.

"Whatever you say, Romeo," she rasped into his hair petulantly, provoking a particularly vicious snarl of dissent, claws digging into her hips unforgivingly, teeth closing around the nipple that currently had his attention. Paired with his filthy, explicit dialogue- _would she ever be able to talk like that?-_ it was enough to push her over the edge. The hand in his hair gripped tight, pushing her breast into the pleasant pain his teeth offered, while the other raked down his back. Were he alive, she would have left marks. Both legs locked tight around him, the muscles rigid and trembling. Painfully aware of her parents' conscious state, teeth dug into her bottom lip to muffle the sharp, euphoric cry that wanted to escape.

This orgasm seemed somehow more intense than many of her previous ones. It went on longer, dragged out by his precise thrusts, white-hot jolts of straight pleasure shooting from her core throughout her entire body. Still convulsing from the aftershocks, she attempted to pick up the slack she'd dropped mid-peak and get him there too, but she was so _weak._ Her movements were shaky, not nearly as smooth or refined as they had been just moments ago, and her grip was feeble. She always felt this way after a tumble with him. At least Lydia knew she could count on sleeping well tonight.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Oh she was _determined _to be a brat, was she! _Romeo _had better be a nickname that doesn't stick around, and Betelgeuse lets her know exactly what he thinks about it. He bites her and gets a bit rough with her in response, just enough to sting, and is pleasantly surprised that it pushes her into an orgasmic state. She claws him and he lets go a guttural noise, his head tucking against her chest as she grabs him and rides out her peak as quietly as she can. It was hot as _fuck _that she had to muffle it – there's nothing more the ghost enjoys than _getting away with something._

This one gets her good, too, it seems, as she's all sorts of trembling and weak after easing down. He's probably exhausted her yet again – their romps tend to be a particular kind of white-hot intensity. Betelgeuse isn't going to let the moment pass though, he takes advantage of her post-orgasmic state to claim his own. It only takes a tiny nudge of his cock with a hand, as she keeps trying to ride him he pushes into her hungrily on the down-stroke. Not too much, and certainly not all the way, just enough to work himself back into her tight, wet confines. She squeezes down on his dick in a sort of surprise, and that's all it takes – he pushes his face firmly between her breasts to huff out a low, muffled noise, explosively orgasming inside her.

This one's been building, and his peak is so much more intense than he could have predicted. He's worked up and she feels like heaven to him. She can feel his cock twitching and pulsing, enthusiastically filling her with quite a large load of cum – eventually, he pulls slowly back out, splattering the insides of her thighs and nether lips with an additional few weak bursts of sticky fluid. Even after all that, he could probably go again…but he's fairly sure she's had enough for the evening. He's thoroughly made a mess of her, at any rate.

After a moment of panting quietly, he admits, "Lyds….for a _second _I really thought Delia was gonna open that fuckin' door." And then he laughs, "Yer so lucky it was _me _answerin' and not some talentless hack."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"You _could _have just let _me _answer, you _bully,"_ Lydia panted, slumping against him in such a way as to guard her comforter against his mess. _Their mess,_ really, but he was definitely the key contributor. Again, he'd only given her the tip, but it was enough. She was ready to pass out where she lay; nestled in his lap flush against him, his lazily drooling cock tucked safely out of the way, still hard as a velvet-covered rock and jutting against her ass cheek.

Dazed and sated, she snuggled into his neck as his essence continued to drip from her. She was absolutely _filthy._ A shower or something was in order before she could succumb to sleep the way she wanted to. Briefly, and not for the first time, she worried that he might be capable of impregnating her, but banished the thought as quickly as it came. As he liked to often remind her, _he was a dead guy._ As delicious as that sperm was, it was dead ectoplasmic goo and it wouldn't be fertilizing anything. No demonic babies for Lydia, thank you very much.

"I think," she whispered tiredly after a few moments, squirming in discomfort as the sliminess stopped being hot and started feeling gross, "this is what _actually _happened to the 'virgin' Mary."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse doesn't answer Lydia's first accusation. Where was the fun in letting her answer?! She got to torture Delia _all the time._ It was his turn, he earned it, he decided.

A cigarette was pulled from the ether as it usually was. He was an avid smoker, as none of that could do any damage to him anymore, but the vague sense of habitual comfort it provided was enough. Long ago the nicotine high had worn off its ability for much. But like a casual encourager to bad habits, he easily passes it to Lydia. At her commentary he almost startles, looking down at her with confusion at first.

And then he busts out laughing against her shoulder, trying to stay relatively quiet about it and nearly failing. "I'm fuckin' makin' baby Jesus, am I? I'm ready to bring a new Lord n' Savior into the world babes. Do I get to ride a donkey?!"

He notices her discomfort, and pats her on her soft backside, encouragingly. "Yeah yeah. Shower. You go do that. I'm getting your computer and I get to play 21 questions with these photos Lyds. I saw a _clown _in there and I _know that clown_ and I wanna know things. Like how he got so _up n' personal_ with my wife."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_"Fine, " _Lydia sighed in mock exasperation, crept from his lap carefully so as to keep any mess from dripping onto her blankets, and took it upon herself to retrieve the laptop and type in her password. She knew he was liable to break it in a temperamental fit if she refused him access. It opened right back up to where they were before he decided she needed a spanking; the file explorer showing the folder that held all of her photos from the Neitherworld. There were a little more than two-hundred for him to filter through, so that would keep him busy.

"Don't delete anything or I'll be really mad," she warned, shooting him a stern look before making her departure for the bathroom. Like the closet, the door to that room was left open as well. Cum trickled down her thighs in slow, sticky rivulets with each step, making her walk to the shower rushed and clumsy. It was unfair of him to deny fucking her only to leave her feeling very fucked. _Jerk._

"He was a total creep," she called back over the splash of water hitting porcelain, clearly referring to the clown. "Gave me some line about 'teaching me to _juggle' _and tried to feel me up without even offering to buy me a drink. _Bum."_ The heavy sound was muted some when she dipped her head under the stream, drenching her sex-mussed mane. Lydia liked her showers _hot._ Aromatic steam began to drift from the room as she lathered up her loofah and started to scrub.

Well aware of her husband's explosive jealous streak, she continued on before he had a chance to properly lose his shit. "Don't worry. He only touched my knee, and Trixie got rid of him before I could punch him in the nose and find out if it was fake or not."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The reading glasses went back on as Betelgeuse clicked through the photos, pleased that Lydia has acquiesced to his weird obsession with her little "trip with brother Donny". She catches not just one, but a _number _of photos of Donny giving her quite a look down from his seat in the little beetle. Betelgeuse knows that face all too well. _Gross fuck._

"I dunno _how _to delete anything on here babes," the ghost replies, distractedly, though he catches her stumble away to the bathroom with some very gooey, glistening inner thighs and smirks evilly from behind her back on the bed. That was a nice little view and satisfied, he went back to rummaging through her photos.

At her description of the clown, he grunts. "I've tried punching him before," he remarks, speaking over the volume of her shower, "don't do any good, his nose squeaks and he just laughs like it's _funny."_ He grumbles, then, "Good on ole Trix. She probably considers it a favor, might come to collect one from ya at some point, be prepared for that. She's the fuckin' _queen _of quid-pro-quo. You think me an' Donny are bad, that girl is a _trip._ Also, just so we're on the same page, I'm going to inflate that clown with the most helium I can find by shovin' a hose up his ass an' attach him by his shriveled little dick to a sandworm."

He hasn't remarked exactly what plan he has for Donny yet. That usually means it's serious when he doesn't have a detailed, precise death or destruction plan for somebody who's crossed him. He gets to the section with all the Dante's girls. Most of them are fairly benign, but he catches a few of them with expressions that are …. a little too affectionate towards his wife, too. This he doesn't voice to Lydia because he's distracted thinking about her mud-wrestling them in some way and soon forgets about how the girls may not be so thoroughly benign for her to associate with.

Eventually, he seems satisfied enough. He was still going to kill at least two parties involved or torture them, or both. Also, he makes a mental note that Lydia isn't permitted around the Neitherworld without him….potentially too dangerous. Steam wafts in from the bathroom and he tilts his head up vaguely. Whatever products she uses makes her smell so very alluring, and he has vague imaginings of pouncing on her in the shower. _Damn that girl. She's proving highly addicting._

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"He was _drunk,"_ Lydia defended the clown half-heartedly, ringing excess moisture from her hair before stepping out of the shower, patting herself dry, and slipping into her bathrobe. It was long, lightweight, and silken. She loved the way the sleeves billowed. It made her feel like Morticia Addams. Claire would sometimes call her "Morticia", meaning it as an insult, but in actuality, Lydia could only hope to one day aspire to that level of iconic Gothic beauty. Wet hair coiled into a black towel atop her head, she joined him back on the bed.

"He probably doesn't even remember. I'm sure you've done _far _worse things while drunk than hitting on a random bar girl." Lydia didn't like the idea of the clown meeting a grisly demise simply because he dared to try and score with her. Going forward, she would have to be more selective with her casual savagery to others in front of Betelgeuse. He had proven himself a proud, vengeful being. Clearly, any disrespect or derisions of her person were something that he took _personally._

Ordinarily, Lydia would slather her entire body with cocoa butter before going to sleep but was well aware that her husband would only find this provocative, and so stuck to massaging the fragrant, off-white cream onto her legs and thighs.

"Are you staying the night?" She queried offhandedly, admiring his glasses as he gave her photos one last patient look over, curiosity apparently sated. "You can if you want, but fair warning, my alarm goes off at five a.m."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The ghoul simply grunted. She wasn't _wrong,_ it's just that this was _different._ Either Betelgeuse cared the whole way or he didn't care at all, and that's how it went with him. He never went halves on anything, and his brand new wife was no exception. Besides, he knew what she didn't: if he, or Donny, or the Dante's girls hadn't been with her, one of the dead would have probably made her theirs in some way or another – and Scuzzo has a bad habit of not respecting any sort of no as an answer. Then again, neither did he, generally. They'd be best of friends, probably, if they weren't constantly trying to outdo each other. And, in his esteemed opinion, Scuzzo was _an asshole._

He gave her a glance over the rims of his glasses, before sliding her laptop closed and whisking them away. "Mm, 'm gonna stay here till ya fall asleep at least. Any longer and I'm liable _t'do things to ya,"_ he teases, giving her a real good oogle. She looked vampy in that silk robe, and he liked it far too much. It clung to her sweet, youthful curves and dipped between her breasts fashionably. "I'm liable to do 'em to ya now, too."

In a breath, he's in some form of pajamas – similar to the ones he wore while they messed around in his coffin. They too are silk, a sort of maroon number that doesn't fit him altogether correctly. And just like everything else he wears, they seem sort of oddly out of place and time. "Speakin' of hot outfits, babes, where'd you get that sexy cobweb number in yer pictures anyway? Donny didn't have anything to do with that, did he?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

The credits were rolling, signifying the end of _Freaks,_ but Lydia went ahead and restarted it knowing full well she was liable to pass out before soaking in any of the plot. She'd have to watch it again when she actually had some energy. For now, it would serve as adequate white noise. A stick of incense- _lavender for relaxation-_ was lit and placed next to the bed and Lydia turned off all the lamps, leaving nothing but the blue light from her television to cast a dim glow about the room.

"No more _doing things_ tonight," she specified firmly, smirking in a way that said she would _very much_ like to keep doing things, "or I'll end up sleeping past my alarm." Lydia wasn't about to let something as trivial as a sexual relationship drag down her impeccable GPA.

"Hold that thought," she answered his question without really answering at all. The house was quiet. Delia and her father appeared to be out for the count. Minutes after leaving Betelgeuse alone in her room, she returned with an extremely happy grim trailing behind her. The panting beast immediately hopped up to the foot of her queen-size mattress and settled into sleep, the corners of his jowls upturned in a content dog smile. It was quite obvious that this was not his first time sleeping in her bed.

"Okay," Lydia finished with a sigh, finally sliding into bed- and her husband's open arms. The towel that held her hair crumpled to the floor, leaving her still somewhat damp tresses to settle and curl on the pillow and his arm. "Ginger made it for me," she mumbled tiredly in his chest, heavy eyes already shut. "Made me breakfast, too. I helped them clean up the kitchen. Can we go to the next movie night? Jacques said _'zey will always be welcoming to me,'"_ she quoted with a smile, attempting her best French accent. "You have the best roommates."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Lydia, as it turns out, is a gal after his own heart. Countless years he's spent watching the same show till he fell asleep, or repeated the same movie, just for the white noise. Sometimes, too, being the world's most _eligible bachelor_ (see: Neitherworld's most wanted…see: a garbage person no one wanted to get close to…see: gross shlub) was quite lonely, and that was the unspoken-to-anyone remedy he often employed. It was that or take up company with Donny, and he hated Donny. His roommates were a last resort.

As Lydia sweeps gracefully around the room turning off lights and lighting the incense, he watches her. Again, he was transfixed by the way she moved, and the billowing robe did nothing to curtail his intense interest. He grunts, at her dismissal of his overtures. "Alarms. Who needs 'em?" he waves that away, encouraging further _bad behavior_ on her part. The look she gives him indicates he won't get anywhere, despite her interest, and he works deeper into her pillows with a huff.

She's rapidly off, too, to places unknown after that. In the meantime, he attempts to reason with his boner that's busily straining at the front of his pajamas. _You'll get it later. Knock it off. Go away. Fuck you. You've had enough. She's _gonna _sleep and you're gonna settle down, asshole._ Nothing works, so he flumps a pillow into his lap in exasperation and waits for Lydia's return.

Not long and she's back with that drooling mutt in tow. The dog takes a place at the end of her bed that he's really too big for and sheepishly gives Betelgeuse the side-eye as if apologizing. The ghoul makes a disapproving noise but relents. Clearly, this is some sort of dog-and-girl bedtime _arrangement._ Besides, Lydia was wrapping herself up against him and that distracted him from any ill-will burbling in his brain. He wraps his bulky arms around her slight frame, practically enveloping her smaller body as she presses to his chest. He's a little soft, always, in places, but surprisingly hard muscle lurks underneath and makes for a very restful sort of surface. His chin tucks above her head, and his eyelids droop. She can feel the usual wiry sort of jittery energetic tension leave him, and with a long sigh through his nose, he seems to finally relax.

"Mhm," Betelgeuse replies and promises himself he's not going to feel up her very naked thigh underneath her robe. _He wants to. Very, very badly._ "We can go any movie-night y'want. And you can think that all y'want, too. I've lived with 'em too long. They're so…._friendly. Eugh._ Makes me wanna puke," she smells good. He tilts his head downwards, huffing a breath into her hair. "They've almost ruined my reputation more'n once. And they've never cooked me breakfast, either." Probably because he never once deserved it. He's never deserved _any _of their kindness.

Slowly, he squirms a thick thigh between hers, mischievously. He leaves it there, though, unmoving and seems to settle that way. _He could get used to this._


	12. The Dearly Departed

_**Guidebetelgeuse:**_

Slowly, carefully, Betelgeuse eased his way from underneath Lydia's warm slumbering body. She had fallen into a heavy sleep against him, and once he was sure she was well and truly unconscious it was time for him to go. Once he slides off the edge of her bed, Bubby perks his ears quietly and as Betelgeuse moves away he gets up from the end of the bed. The dog slumps down where he used to be, and is immediately cuddled into a spooning position by his exhausted wife. The ghost rolls his eyes – and reaches out to pet both Bubby and Lydia affectionately in farewell.

"I'm tag-teamin' with a mutt," he grouses, under his breath as he heads for her vanity, "Stupid dog sees more action than_ I_ do."

The ghost slips through the mirror for old time's sake – he has a myriad of ways to get back into the Neitherworld but this one is among his favorites. He comes out directly into Donny's tidy little ice cream shop, vis-à-vis one of the decorative mirrors that line a far wall. It's silent and empty, but he knows his brother is lurking around here somewhere. He locks the doors with a snap of his fingers and steps forward, falling into a new, horrifying form. His many, many legs ease him up onto the ceiling, and there he waits for his brother.

Whistling, Donny rounds the corner, a large ice cream tub in his arms. He opens the case and works it into place inside, busying himself. The thing on the ceiling shifts, and the prim, tidy ghost suddenly realizes something is amiss. Bright blue eyes scan the parlor, but see nothing.

Betelgeuse drops. His horrifying, many-legged body lands on Donny with all its full weight. He looks like some sort of disgusting cross between a house centipede and a whip scorpion, except he's the size of a person and his claws are enormous. He has a vaguely humanoid face attached to the front, black, pearly eyes littering his visage, and he hisses, attaching one of the clamping appendages to Donny's neck in a vice-like grip. His many mandibles clap. _ "I gave you eeexxxcppliisssscit innssssstructions, you little sssshit for brainssss!"_

* * *

_**TheArtOfSuicide:**_

A girlish shriek filled the air as the monster dropped from the ceiling to capture its brother in a lethal grip. Acidic drool dripped from its many teeth, burning tiny little holes through the tile.

"B-b-b- big brothah! Y-ya gotta lemme explain-_ EEEK!"_ One of the creature's larger, more viciously sharpened talons drew back to gain momentum only to miss disemboweling its target, crashing into pristine checkered tile instead. Donny popped away at the last second, appearing on the other side of the parlor, knees shaking and holding a tray up in front of his person as some sort of last-ditch defense.

"Ya don't understand! S'not mah fault, honest! Lil sis is-_ AAHH!" _A shot of pure energy, electric green in color, zoomed across the room, bounced off the tray, and shattered the eye scream display. Rather than skidding across the floor, the resulting shards of glass aimed themselves at the doomed ghoul. In lieu of filleting his squeaky clean flesh, they caught the edges of his uniform and secured him to the wall; a pinned insect ready for dissection.

"She's a_ trouble magnet!_ Y'oughta put a collar on that girl n' keep her locked up indoors where she can't get inta nothin'!" The demonic abomination slithered ever closer as his brother pled, murderous intent glazing over its ravenous gaze. A curdling sense of dread tickled Donny's spine. His brother had never come at him like _this _before.

"Oh, c'mon, BJ, be _reasonable!_ She's alright, ain't she? I didn't touch a hair on yer lil kitten's head, promise! _She didn't say I did, did she?_ If she did, she's a lyin' lil-"

The younger Geuse brother was not permitted to finish his sentence.

* * *

_**Guidebetelgeuse:**_

All of those legs find purchase in the walls, along Donny's little candy colored suit, around the pieces of glass that pin him to the wall. His pincers find purchase at Donny's throat after he attempts to create an imaginary scenario where his wife is a lying little….what? Whore? He was going to get it for that _strangled _word.

It's almost impossible for a ghost to truly hurt another ghost, so while this was quite terrifying for Donny it wasn't as horrific as it would be if he were alive. Still, the intimidation factor is there, and all of Betelgeuse's mandibles clatter with rage. "You'd _like that_ wouldn'tssss you?" the horrible insect snarls, regarding Donny's suggestion of a collar and a cage, "Ssssssick little asssssshole. I'm proooobably going to do that at ssssssome point but _not on your ssssuggestion_ and not for the _sssssame reasssonnsss."_

Claws that tip the ends of his many horrid legs scrape at the younger ghost's clothes, his skin, his hair. That acid drool is busily melting his serving tray. His thorax presses heavily against Donny's front, keeping him well-pinned beyond the shards of glass. "Liissssstteeen caaaarefully. We've shhhhared many thingsss, you an' me. We've sssshhaared whoressss, we've shhhared a bed when timessss were lonely," one of his claws drags down the side of Donny's pale cheek, "But thisssss, little brother….thiiissssss we _do not sssshare. I sssssaaaaw the looksssss y'gave herrrrrr."  
_  
He vaguely considers using some sort of ovipositor to lay insect eggs under Donny's skin to hatch later. He settles on it being far too gruesome for his brother, instead he growls, "I'm going to do the worst thing I can ssssthink to do to you, and thatsssss _cutting you off."_

The claws dig into skin as if for emphasis, "No more ffffaamily bussssssinnessss. Nooo more little ssssssister. No more ….family pretendssss." His body rattles and hisses horribly, like some sort of Madagascar cockroach. "You fucked it up _bigtimessss."_

Betelgeuse starts eating Donny's arm at that juncture. It's horrific, crunching of bone and flowing acid dissolving his ghostly flesh. If they could feel anything properly like that anymore, it might even hurt. He makes it all the way down to his sibling's torso before he stops, shudders, and suddenly bursts into a wet green acidic slop with a million little versions of himself scattering to all the dark places in the shop. He is gone, then, it seems. The shards of glass formerly holding poor Donny shattering to the ground all around him. The physical damage was trivial – with a little work everything would be entirely repaired, but the threat remained like stagnant air. Donny would be _completely alone_ on the family front.

The ghost continues on in a surge of insectoid wave, all of him spilling in a pile of many legged insects right into the Waiting Room. Like some sort of horrible chittering plague, he sends its denizens scattering to all corners of the place. A good handful of his insectoid selves find purchase crawling up Barb's legs as they encounter them, all laughing in tiny shrill voices merrily. "Legs, legs," they all murmur, chortling, eventually swarming up between her and Adam swiftly. The insects congeal into a shape, and the shape is a man.

Betelgeuse finally takes up the space between the pair properly, and slings his striped arms around both of them, overly affectionate, chummy, far too happily and sinisterly eager. "Hey - Adam, Legs," he says, "I missed you two losers. How's life waiting in line, huh?"

* * *

_**TheArtOfSuicide:**_

Adam and Barbara Maitland were moving up the line. Very… very… _very… slowly._ Watching paint dry would have been more interesting. Unlike their last visit, they were not given the privilege of special treatment. Back then, Betelgeuse was occupying their home uninvited, on the verge of _escape,_ something that the powers that be took into grave consideration. Therefore, they were rushed right through. Favors for the living, however, had only earned the Maitlands upturned noses and snotty looks.

Fortunately-_ or unfortunately, depending on the perspective- _the deceased couple had plenty to discuss while waiting.

_"This is our fault, isn't it, Adam?" _Barbara had whispered in desperation she didn't know how long ago. The only answer she received was a despondent frown, a loving brush of her copious curls, and a kiss to the forehead. If Adam had anything to comfort his wife, he would have given it, but there were no mercies in the Waiting Room. Time was their mistress and she was a cruel bitch. Knowing full well that there was nothing to be gained from it, Barbara watched the clock on the wall until she was certain she could actually see the frozen arms moving. They must have been. _Had to be._ The hour wasn't the same as when they arrived.

A ghoul who arrived after them was shuffled through the door. Adam glared behind his specs, getting the distinct feeling that they were being punished for something. _Maybe this is Hell,_ he wanted to comment in a twisted echo of more sappy phrases he'd uttered before, but didn't. Barbara was torturing herself just fine without his help.

Suddenly, there was a break in the monotony. While other spirits screeched and scrambled, the Maitlands sat frozen. Rage rather than fear kept them glued to their seats. They recognized that energy. It was unmistakable. They knew who they were dealing with before hearing that detestable scratching voice, seeing those vomit-inducing stripes. _Betelgeuse._

"MONSTER!" Barbara attacked, wrapping manicured fingers around his grimy neck and wringing with all her strength._ "Evil, slimy, son of a BITCH!" _Adam would have been giving the poltergeist his best right hook if he weren't terrified for his wife's safety. Her choking didn't appear to be getting her anywhere. Betelgeuse remained just as dead as always. _"LET GO OF ME, ADAM, I'M GOING TO CASTRATE HIM!"  
_  
"Quiet down out there," Miss Argentina chided lightly, rolling her eyes, and then shut the partition, still mumbling to herself. _"Can't a girl get a little shut-eye? Sheesh."_

* * *

_**Guidebetelgeuse:**_

There were hands around his neck in an instant. Feminine, soft hands. Strangling him. Oh Barb, never change. Betelgeuse laughs gleefully at her threats, wildly excited, kicking his legs and making an over-exaggerated strangling noise for her benefit. Eventually, he just detaches his head, causing her hands to slip directly between the space left behind as they're chided by Miss Argentina.

"Woah woah, alright, there _killer._ You can't cut my dick off, I save that for every other Tuesday and we're on an off-Tuesday," he says, escaping from between the two of them since it seems they intend quite a lot of violence towards him and that's going to waste a lot of time – even though it's sort of sexy. He re-attaches his head with a gross _crunch._

"I know why you're both here okay?" he adds, "Little woman told me aaaaallll about it. Hard as it is to believe, I'm here to _help y'out._ Only person that can get you out of this waiting room and on your way before…," he checks his watch and lights a cigarette, "….the _end of eternity_ is me. And really, is this _any way _to treat your adoptive son-in-law, legs? This is hell. You guys want out, _don'tcha?"_

* * *

_**TheArtOfSuicide:**_

That he had been able to get Lydia to trust him enough to send him on as delicate a mission as this spoke horrible volumes. A gag built up in Barbara's throat, stomach acid she didn't know she still had working to fight its way out. Adam stood behind her, his grip on her biceps-_ insurance in case she flew off the handle again-_ growing painfully tight.

_Adoptive son-in-law._ "You are **vile**," Mrs. Maitland spat, shaking with disgust. "To _take advantage_ of a _grieving child_ is… is lower than _low._ You'd better hope that this is _really _the end. I wouldn't want to see anything that any kind of higher power might have planned for _you."_

"Barb," her husband's firm tone cut off her impassioned rant before she could lose herself in it. Generally the calmer and more collected of the couple, Mr. Maitland was able to see that it _might not be a great idea_ to hurl insults and threats at the filthy ghoul, no matter how much he deserved them. "Maybe- _just maybe-_ we should consider accepting his help-"

Barbara gasped, overcome with shock and horror._ "Adam-!"  
_  
"Hear me out," he murmured low, drawing his wife away just a few feet in a futile attempt at constructing a barrier for privacy. "_Lydia_ sent him- _and he went!_ He must be… bound to her in some way-_ I know, honey, it makes me sick, too- _but just think about it." Comprehension darkened Barbara's eyes. The poltergeist couldn't do anything _too _horrible to them or Lydia wouldn't like it, which apparently mattered to him for some perverse reason.

_"Fine,"_ Mrs. Maitland practically snarled, turning her back on her husband to face Betelgeuse once more, curls whipping in her fervor. At the moment, she closely resembled a mother lioness growling down at the filthy, soon-to-be-dead hyena that dared threaten her cub. "But if you think you're about to do this alone, you've got _another thing coming._ Adam and I aren't going _anywhere."_

* * *

_**Guidebetelgeuse:**_

"Don't worry Barb, this is _Hell,"_ replied the ghoul with sudden, cruel honesty, a perverse frankness to his tone. Then he adds, with a quirked smile, "Yer hot when you're pissed though, anyone ever tell you that?"

As Adam actually _sides _with him, his eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. Maybe that whole _simpatico _thing got to him eventually, or maybe he's just seeing the light. The ghoul paces around them, slowly, cigarette dangling from his lips. Adam pulls Barb away, and he hangs back – he can hear them loud and clear from right where he stands. Adam's reasoning, though, makes him nearly choke on an inhale of smoke. They think she's the one in charge, do they? _Hilarious._

Whatever Adam's stupid thinking, it does have the nice effect of making Barb agree with it. Chalk one up to the prick. As Barb whips around with froth practically at the corners of her mouth, the ghost holds up both grimy hands plaintively.

"Listen, legs, whatever gets me _out of here with you stiffs_ and back to hot tit—ehm, Lydia, _okay?"_ he sniffs, and wipes an arm disgustingly under his nose, "My wife? She _called me back,_ it was real sweet. Mighta sent you on this fool's errand just to do the deed while you were gone. Anyway, let's find yer Russian _likhoradka _huh?"

He crooks a finger at them both and leads them to the door to the office. Opening it, Miss Argentina begins a protest before realizing it's him, the Maitlands in tow.

"Juno's not gonna like this," is all she remarks, "There's an _order."_

"Junebug can suck every inch of my cock. She _owes _me," is all that is snarled to her in return. Miss Argentina shrugs, and goes right back to passive aggressively filing her nails.

The ghoul leads Adam and Barb past all the desks, the skeletons and other workers, down the side corridor and kicks Juno's door open with a boot unceremoniously. _CRUNCH._

The caseworker inside startles, glaring at all three of them with molten fury. She jabs a long nailed old forefinger at all three of them in a direct gesture.

"You'd better tell me what you're here for in three seconds or less, or I'm gonna tear someone's testicles off with my teeth," this time, Juno means it. Betelgeuse seems to sense that she means such strict business, and without further ado he pulls a crinkled scrap of paper from his pocket. He reads off Lydia's mother's full name, which he scrawled down at one point or another.

"Twenty-fifth desk from the back. Filing section. She's still acclimating. Sad case. Now get _lost,"_ Juno snarls, leaning over her desk, "And don't fuck with my employees too much! I don't want _any bullshit_ from you or _them,_ B!"

As he leads the Maitlands back out, Juno growls to herself. "Working _together _– unbelievable, first they let him out, then they banish him, then they _let him marry their daughter,_ they want her parents _out,_ then they want her parents in—-nearly got us all discovered—" the door slams shut loudly behind them all.

"Well, you heard the woman. C'mon," Betelgeuse once again leads them back out, into the main portion of the office space. He leads them past rows and rows and rows of desks, endless workers, endless typewriters, paperwork, perpetual exhaustion. The 'filing section' is just that. Tall filing cabinets, rows of them, that seem to disappear in height into a foggy ceiling. The hanging bodies or ones that can hang from the track system access the highest drawers. At the bottom though, are the desks and the workers. Most are steadfastly working.

Betelgeuse sees her far before the Maitlands do. She looks just like his Lydia, but….an older, ruined shell. Misery hangs around her like a shroud, he can almost viscerally feel it even some distance away from where he and the other ghosts stand. Something horrible clenches in his chest, and twists his gut. He leads them onwards, towards the woman's desk grimly. "I think…." He says, pausing a number of feet away from her, as if unable to get much closer. The resemblance is _tragic._ He suddenly has the urge to disappear far from this office. "…that's gonna be her, yeah…."

* * *

_**TheArtOfSuicide:**_

_"She called _**me **_back."_

_Liar! _The accusation ached to ring through the air, but nevertheless could not. What did they know? How long had they even been gone? Betelgeuse was gifted in the art of deception, but he had no reason to lie here. _He had already won._ The brassy golden band on his ring finger said so. The realization seemed to hit Mr. and Mrs. Maitland at precisely the same time, and they shared a hollow, guilty stare.

In seething silence, they followed behind the monstrous ghoul as he bullied his way past Miss Argentina. There was no smug satisfaction at getting a "cut in line" to be found for Adam or Barbara. The ghostly couple allowed themselves to be crudely ushered through Juno's office and back through the perpetual sea of civil servants. Eventually, their foul chaperone slowed to a halt, shadowy gaze locked on one raven-haired laborer in particular.

Betelgeuse's feet appeared to be cemented to the aisle, keeping him a fair distance away from Lydia's grim doppelganger of a mother. The job was done. They checked, and Natalya was here. No need to _speak _to the woman. The Maitlands were of a foolish, opposite frame of mind, it seemed. They approached her desk, said nothing, and received no reaction in return. The pale, faded beauty only stared off into space, slumped limply in her chair, tiny, bony hands idly resting on her dusty keyboard.

"Natalya?" Barbara dared to whisper, gasping horribly when this made the woman's frozen facade falter. Once, slowly, she blinked. Then, her icy, milked over eyes settled on the one who spoke her name.

_"You know me?"_ She rasped in a heavily accented, eerily familiar voice. Albeit Natalya's was huskier and devoid of life, there was no mistaking the resemblance it bore to her daughter's._ "I do not know you."_

"No, no," Mrs. Maitland corrected, grasping her husband's hand tight, "We don't know you… exactly. We're… _friends _of your daughter's. Of Lydia." Here, there was an expectant pause.

_"Lydia," _said girl's mother sighed lovingly, the name rolling off her tongue in a musical way. For a brief moment, life gleamed over that dead gaze and dark blue lips curled into the tiniest of smiles. But then all was as before and the hollow doll was staring right through them again, facial muscles slack._ "I do not know any… Lydia's… You stay…? Keep me company…? It is so lonely here." _For the first time, those hollow eyes looked past the Maitlands, sharply catching Betelgeuse's during one of the scant few seconds he'd brought himself to actually look at her._ "And you, pretty green eyes…? I love a man with green eyes… You stay with me…?" _Something dark and sensual was murmured in her native tongue before she reverted to English.

_"I know I will miss you when you are gone."_

* * *

_**Guidebetelgeuse:**_

As those ghostly, dead eyes catch his dark ones, the ghoul actually physically _shudders._ It isn't at all often that anything affects him anymore, his blackened heart shriveled to tragedies like this long ago. Dead people looked _dead –_ but that sad, sallow face and latescent gaze that was a shadow of an older Lydia made horrid things churn in his own corpsey shell. He doesn't like it when she talks, either, her voice is a dead ringer for his wife, and as she addresses him there's a large part of him that wants to simply abandon the entire ordeal, _disappear _and never return.

Of course Natalya doesn't remember her daughter. These clean freaks and a hopeful teenager wouldn't know the grip of a deep drug lifestyle if it spat on them. Steeling himself to keep up appearances, the ghoul pointed at himself in faux-surprise.

"Who, _me?"_ Betelgeuse ambled forward, then, every part of his mind resisting in order to lean right into Natalya's dead, broken visage. "No, pretty _likhoradka,"_ he replies with faked regret, wishing he could banish her appearance from him, "I can't stay here with you." He strokes a thumb across her cheek, horrified to discover her skin was still soft, so disgustingly familiar, "I'd break yer heart. Maybe if things had been different, you and I woulda gotten on _famously."_

His expression tries its best to be suggestive, but once he turns away towards the Maitlands it falters. They might catch it, but he pushes past them with a mumbled, brisk, "'Scuse me."

As they continue to try to hopelessly jog Natalya's memory, or stand there in awkward silence, the ghost wanders purposefully a short distance away. Barb and Adam watch after him, perplexed, as Barb takes Adam's hand for comfort. There, in the strange dim green light of the office, Betelgeuse encounters someone he seems to know – a pretty blonde, youthful, in a tidy suit jacket and short skirt sitting behind one of the desks. Happily, once he says a few words to her she embraces him.

"Is he seriously _leaving us with Natalya_ to—to—-" Barb starts to stutter to Adam. "_Flirt…?!_ Unconscionable. _Monster—"_

Betelgeuse brings the blond out from behind her desk, leading her back towards the Maitlands. They can see now that there's a small wound in one of her cheeks, and as she turns at one point it's quite obvious that the entire back of her head appears to be blown away. Her golden ringlets cover some of this horrific disfigurement from the front, but it is plain as day from any other angle.

Barb seems ready to fire off at him again once they return and reach Natalya's desk, but the ghoul simply raises an irritated finger at her. So shockingly silent and angry is the ghost that it stifles Barb in surprise, who watches him with wide, appalled eyes and a gaping mouth. Adam quietly looks on, the muscles in his neck stiff.

Betelgeuse introduces the blond and Natalya, rushing on about co-workers and Natalya being new. The blond seems to have a motherly disposition, and a large amount of sweet, sincere patience. She hunkers down by Natalya's desk and appears to have a mission now, taking one of her pale, barely responsive hands in her own. As they connect, Betelgeuse sullenly returns to the Maitlands and dryly grunts, "Let's go."

"Who was that?" Barb asks, after glancing at Adam.

"You knew that girl?" her husband added.

"That was nobody, and no," came the very dark reply over his shoulder as he leads them away, said a tone they hadn't ever heard from Betelgeuse before. It seemed to quiet them – they had seen him furious, jovial, lascivious and a wide range of other emotions, but not this one.

In a swirl of paper and a rush of air, the ghost pulls them along with him out of the office. Stray papers come with their transition, and scatter along the wooden floor of their home which they suddenly find themselves re-occupying. Betelgeuse has put them all right in front of the dining room. There was no need for him to hide any longer, the proverbial cat was entirely out of the bag.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

It was terribly difficult for Lydia to swallow the urge to call her husband in the days that passed. She knew what he was doing. He warned her it would take awhile. She should have gotten a more specific time from him before he left, not that he would have given her one. Still, she had grown accustomed to his presence, spoiled by how _easy _it was to call him to her side. At least Bubby stuck around to keep her company.

The watch he gave her was useless. Lydia had replaced the fractured frame, polished the tarnished silver, treated the cracked leather, and carefully inserted new notches in the band so that it could fit on her smaller wrist. While it offered no frame of reference for when he might return, there was a slight comfort to be found whenever she found her gaze wandering toward it. It was nice to be on his time, even though she wasn't. Not really. The arms moved erratically, never when she was watching them, and never in a pattern that made any sense. One school day, the hour hand moved a whopping three hours. Contrarily, it once took an entire forty-eight hours for fifteen minutes to pass.

Three days into her boycott from the kitchen, Lydia took pity on Delia and her father, when watching them survive on pizza and ramen became sadder than it was hilarious. Besides, she _liked _cooking. Friday morning, one week to the day since she last saw her husband, she put a fat, marinated cut of pork in the oven to roast on low before biking off to school. By the time she returned and finished any given homework, the mouthwatering aroma filled every corner of every room of the house. Generous and attentive, Lydia loaded up three plates with tender meat, green beans, mashed potatoes, and cornbread before slathering it all in gravy made from the pork juices. _Barbara hadn't left her behind with nothing._

"Well?" She sniped haughtily over her shoulder while setting the table, having sensed Delia peaking around the corner hungrily. "Go get father. Dinner's served."

It was in the middle of this silent, awkward meal that Betelgeuse chose to reappear with Mr. and Mrs. Maitland. In plain sight. _Three feet from the dining room table._ Lydia froze midchew, noticing all three of them before either of the Deetzes. Before she could even think to make any kind of discrete _"shoo, go away" _motions, her father looked up from his plate. His tan skin grew very, very red and he very nearly choked on the hunk of meat he was chewing. Delia, discerning that something was off, turned in her seat, only to scream out loud once her crystal blue eyes took in the source of the disturbance.

Chaos was _immediate._ Betelgeuse didn't even _have _to pour gasoline over this fire, though it would have been so easy to do so. "What are you doing with _him?!"_ Her father yelled accusingly, silverware clattering to the floor as he stomped from the table.

"_Lydia_ sent him," Adam stepped forward, taking a fierce offensive position between Charles and his wife. "Why didn't _you _know that she's been seeing him-?"

"- That they're _married!_ That _she _called _him _back!" Barbara cut in, unleashing all of her pent-up fury on the Deetzes, who for all intents and purposes had _let this happen._

"That's not true!" Delia denied, brows furrowed, shaking her head. "Lydia has a _boyfriend._ Lydia, tell them, dear," she implored sweetly, somewhat desperately, needing to hear it out loud. "Tell them that's not true."

Lydia shrunk further into the wall she had slunk against in the midst of all the yelling. She swallowed, panicked gaze fluttering rapidly between all parents- _living and deceased-_ who had dropped all bickering in favor of getting an explanation out of her. She knew better than to look to Betelgeuse for help here. _He was getting off on this._ He relished in their misery, hers hopefully to a lesser extent than the others.

The room was getting smaller. There were too many eyes on her. Unable to answer Delia's questions in a way that wouldn't end in more shouting, Lydia deflected, breaths growing noticeably sharper. "My mother," she gasped suddenly, snapping attention to Barbara, "did you see my mother?"

Mrs. Maitland's open mouth closed. Chocolate eyes glazed over painfully and the girl was granted the slightest of nods. Something inside of Lydia broke. Her gaze grew unfocused but did not glisten over, and her distressed countenance was freed from all emotion. Whether or not she was even listening anymore was indiscernible.

"Who cares about that- that _junkie slut?!"_ Delia finally snapped, frazzled red hair standing on end as her pleasant facade deteriorated. "We have bigger problems to worry about! _Like him!"_ Forgetting herself, the puny mortal stepmother dared to point Betelgeuse down with a navy acrylic nail, like she was pointing out a particularly interesting mess on the floor. "Are you trying to tell me that he's been lurking around my house for weeks because that _psychotic little brat_ couldn't just find herself a _normal _boyfriend?!" It was Delia's turn to foam at the mouth. Whether the somber, grief-stricken Lydia was stung by her callousness remained unclear. _"Charles!"_ She screeched, near ripping her fiery hair out._ "Do something about this!"_

Like a faithful lapdog, Charles sprung to action. "You need to go back and chat with that _social worker_ of yours and straighten this crap out right this second!"

"Who do you think _you are,_ Deetz?" Adam clapped back, unwilling to let his wife take the reigns against the rival paternal figure. She seemed happy enough to snipe with Delia regarding the woman's unkind phrasing. "We don't answer to _you._ No matter _how very badly_ we would like to, we can't fix this! It doesn't work that way! The real question is how did _you _let this happen? Under _your _nose, under _your _roof!" Charles gaped, mouth opening and closing several times. "Are you _truly just that_ irresponsible?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The only thing that eases Betelgeuse's ragingly bad mood is the return to the house, and the slow, delicious reaction from both of Lydia's parents to seeing him.

He doesn't even have to say anything before the Maitlands and the Deetzes laid directly into each other like a bunch of rabid animals over him and Lydia. At one point in the conversation, he slinks around behind Barb and Adam, leaning in between them for a quick jab, unable to resist, "See, if you woulda just let me do my _job…_" tauntingly, before ducking back into the strange shadowed lighting of the dining room.

As Delia points a finger at him the ghoul merely adjusts his filthy tie, sniffing. He was absolutely getting off on her anger, vitriolic, delicious. A moldy hand slides down to the front of his pants and he squeezes there once, lightly, making a face that indicates he is very pleased, as if this situation was a sexual fine wine. As she turns on Lydia, though, the ghoul's expression darkens. She can be just as vicious as her step-daughter, as it turns out – _psychotic little brat?_ Yikes.

They continue to bicker, and the ghoul rocks on his heels briefly, before glancing over at Lydia. She wears an emotionless mask as she continues to sit in her chair, not looking at anyone, clearly not taking in any of the surrounding chaos. He frowns. That's not good.

"And YOU!" comes the roar from Barbara Maitland, finally, pointing at Betelgeuse herself, getting up in his face with a few short angry strides. "That _whole scene_ in the waiting room _weeks ago_ with Lydia, where you just _had _to show off your sick little game!"

She slaps him.

The room goes quiet, expecting some sort of explosive response and Betelgeuse blinks slowly. "I didn't think I could get more aroused Barb, but y'just did it."

Adam has to hold Barb off as she threatens to kill the ghoul all over again but he's also yelling. Barb almost knocks Adam's glasses off with her furious flailing. Delia is still enraged at the both of them, and Charles has switched from trying to take out his rage on Adam into trying to calm down his wife. Charles suddenly seems to have a realization himself, however, because Betelgeuse has taken a moment to turn to him slowly out of the chaos and give him a big, fat comedic wink.

"That….the…._dream—_" he stutters, suddenly having to hang onto Delia's shoulder, the air fully sucked out of his lungs. "That means—-"

Betelgeuse licks his lips slowly, evilly.

_"Charles—what in god's name are you talking about?" _Huffs Delia, enraged, before pointing at him, eyes wide, "Wait - you've had a dream about _him _too?"

They both stare at him, horrified, twin pairs of eyes as wide as saucers – and both of them hanging off each other pitifully. Betelgeuse lights a cigarette.

The chaos immediately resumes. Charles is trying to leap across the dining room table towards the ghost, his face redder than ever and he's threatening the ghoul with death now, too. Delia finally turns to her mute daughter fiercely.

"Is it _true?_ You're …. You called _him?_ You're…..you're…."

Betelgeuse answers for Lydia, lifting his finger into the air to show off the glittering gold band.

"Deed's done, Deetz," he says, eventually leaning against the wall Lydia is trying to disappear against, "None of you can send me back, no more three names bullshit. _I'm free._ All thanks to your precious little daughter."

His hand extends outwards to the shrinking girl, as if to check on her, maybe. He's aching to touch her, to feel her soft warmth, to erase the horrific memory of her mother's skin on his fingers. He almost sighs as his thumb travels her sweet, youthful cheek but he stifles it, instead letting twin jets of cigarette smoke out his nose. Lydia doesn't respond to him, exactly, but one of her eyes flinch just enough to indicate she felt it. Barb can't stand it – she bristles instantly, her voice breathless and stern.

"Oh no you don't! You don't get to — you _keep your filthy paws_ off her! You don't get to touch her like that! For one, she's _sixteen,_ for two, _you can't. I forbid it!_ This is still _my house_ and what I say _goes!"_

Charles suddenly looks grim, and he glances at Barb, sinking into a chair.

"I think he already has touched her, Barb," he says, voice hoarse, defeated.

They turn on Lydia then. Three of them, interrogating her in turn, with Charles pleading with her to tell the truth. Instead of answering any of them, however, her face simply crumples. Not a tear streams from her eyes, but she quietly and quickly removes herself from the dining room, pushing past Betelgeuse, and flees up the stairs without as much as a word to any of them.

The pair of parents instantly turn right back on each other in her absence instead of even attempting to stop her. Bored now, and clearly acknowledging none of them really were interested in either comforting Lydia or helping her, the ghost slips away behind the arguing, furious couples and floats lazily up through their living room ceiling.

He phases through it, and emerges into Lydia's bathtub. He adjusts his suit and steps out of it, moving to the door frame that leads into her room and leaning there, stopping at the threshold. He's silent, for once, intending to take in her current state before deciding on his next move.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

The beetle blanket, which Lydia had snuggled with every night since it was given to her, was left pointedly folded at the foot of her bed- the only indication that she was at all upset with him. Her face burrowed instead inside one of her cushier pillows, the fluffy fibers sucking in her deep, shuddering breaths. Everything _hurt._ She was so _stupid._ How could she have dreamed that would have gone any better than it did? Of course Mother killed herself. Anyone would have in her shoes, except perhaps those few privy to the secrets of the afterlife. This was the end for her. There was no hope. If there was any way out, Betelgeuse would have said something by now.

_… would he?_

He didn't love her. He couldn't. That much was abundantly clear to Lydia, more so now than ever. Love was nothing more than a silly word he slipped into conversation because he knew it would make her feel special and warm. She was just a stupid little girl with stupid little dreams. He _used _her because it was _easy… _and she _liked _it. His love may have been unattainable, but his lust and attention were not. Lydia would accept the latter, and learn to find a way to resign herself to the former.

For now, however, she wanted _absolutely nothing to do with him._

"Thank you," she concluded numbly after several minutes of silence. She didn't need to look to know that he was there. _For retrieving Adam and Barbara. For speeding up the process. For checking on my junkie slut mother._ All the reasons choked on their way up. "I would like to be alone now, please."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Yeah," the ghoul replies from the doorway in reply to her wanting to be alone, "I know."

That's all he says for a beat, and then he adds, "Look, Lydia….babes….I'm _sorry."_ He's not good at this. He's better than her father, maybe, but this is still not in his ball-field. He moves from the doorway and takes a few steps into her room, moving to sit opposite her on the edge of her bed. His back faces her, and he hunches there. He smokes, and seems to work out what to say to her.

"I don't _like _Barb and Adam and I'm not gonna pretend I do, first. Making them upset makes me happy, and the only collateral is you, and I hate that but it _clearly _doesn't fuckin' stop me. Second, your mom is …. where she is, she's in the office. She sounds and looks _exactly like you_ if you had wound up there, and I gotta tell you, that's _fucking traumatic."_

He pauses, again, "But it isn't about me, anyway. Look, Lyds, you're an amazing, beautiful, wonderful girl. I'm not that. I'm …. I _tricked _ya into almost marrying me the first time. I was a lucky, stupid asshole the second time because you were _guilty _enough and _good _enough to come back for me. And, 'cause I am who I am, I've been generous enough to fuck it up every possible chance I get. But I wasn't lyin' about ….I mean, those sketches…. what I feel about you is real."

There's a pause, and Betelgeuse twists to look at her vaguely over a shoulder. "I'm sorry I can't be your _Prince Charming,_ babes. I missed ya all week. I'm a bum. Please talk to me?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"I'm not mad at you," Lydia imparted lifelessly, just as hollow as before, in an attempt to ease his hurt feelings. She wasn't mad at him. She simply didn't have the emotional capacity or mental fortitude required to attempt sorting the truth from the lies. "I missed you too." Another truth. Lydia could only deal in precise facts at the moment. The marks and bruises that mapped out his affection had all but faded. If it weren't for his trinkets littering her room, she might have questioned whether their adventures had even happened. Luckily, her sanity appeared to be remaining mostly intact.

Talking was hard. Thinking hurt. Lydia would have loved nothing more than to curl up into a ball in the shadiest corner of her darkroom and die. Death wouldn't free her from these feelings, she knew, but it was still a comforting thought.

"I'm _not-"_ Her voice wavered, threatening to unleash a suffocating onslaught of tears. _"I'm not good at talking right now," _she was finally able to choke out into her pillow without shedding any droplets of moisture. Even in the depths of her misery, Lydia couldn't bear seeing him so downtrodden. In concession, she summoned the strength necessary to turn until she was facing him, face still buried in the cushion. A tiny, pale hand crawled forward, only to slump and die listlessly at the halfway point between them. Close enough for him to grab if he wished. Maybe that would make him feel better.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse watches Lydia's hand do its best to reach him. _Ode to a Miserable Teenager –_ the poor thing dies halfway across, and she and it lie there limply. It was a peace offering, he knew, and it took considerable effort on her behalf clearly.

But, for the ghoul, it just wasn't enough. He hitches his legs up into the bed and with a weighty motion he bodily collapses next to her, dragging her into his arms in a sweeping grab. He pulls her so that her face is buried into his suit jacket instead of her pillow, his bulky striped arms gathering her up to him, his chin tucking over the top of her head. He smells like the usual – cigarettes and must, and his own unique scent.

He breathes out, long and slow, despite not having to breathe at all. She can feel him relax around her and sort of melt against her slight frame, like a lion curling around a precious lamb.

"I think its movie night, in the Neitherworld, if you want to fuck off from here n' go get fucked up with some better stiffs. N' not think for a while."

Usually seems to help him when he can't process correctly. Drinking. Drinking still gives him the satisfaction it always has. He drags his fingers through her impossibly long, silken hair and gives her a suddenly tight squeeze. He's glad, for once, that although she doesn't know it – the office, the Neitherworld, they'll never _truly _have her, not like her mother. _No, this one's mine, and mine alone._

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

When he first grabbed her up, Lydia stiffened, torn between slapping him and surrendering to his heavy embrace, eventually settling on the latter. It was easier to just let him comfort her. All the nasty voices in her head- _calling her stupid and worthless, calling him a womanizing liar-_ were at the moment silenced. She missed him so much, and he was so strong and solid. He could carry her burden. Maybe it made her weak, but Lydia was in too much pain to care. There were worse things in the world than weakness.

So, ever his trusting, gullible prey, she sunk into him as he squeezed her tight; thighs wrapped around his middle straddling, arms and face squirmed beneath his jacket. Frail hands remained curled and feeble atop his button up, not gripping anything. Tears had yet to fall, but Lydia knew it was only a matter of time. Deep lungfuls of his familiar scent helped to center her somewhat, yet her mind was still a confusing jumble of derogatory accusations- most of which were aimed at herself- and half-assed plans for the future. _What to do _**now**_? Everyone knew-_ not that Lydia had tried all that hard to hide her relationship, high on idiotic rebellious pride.

"Ok," she acquiesced once more to his whims, even though she really didn't want to see, talk, or be around anyone, him included. However, even the slimiest, sleaziest denizens of the Neitherworld had always been _kind _to her at the very least. She had yet to have a cruel word or disgusted sneer aimed her way down there. Jacques and Ginger would be nice to her. They wouldn't judge her or hound her for explanations, demand to know _what the fuck was _**wrong with her**_ because something obviously was._ They would just be happy to see her and that sounded _nice._

If there was any justice in the world, she would end up sobbing over her clueless husband later that night, drunk and incoherent. _He deserved it._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The voices in Lydia's brain were correct on one thing: he was _absolutely _a womanizing liar, and an enthusiastic one at that. As she tucked in close, her thighs enclosing his middle, her face disappearing past the lapels of his jacket, her little hands coiled against his chest, he squirmed to meet her affection. He wasn't lying about anything he just said to her, of course, and her sweet deep breathing, her warmth, her soft, pliant body were like a drug – he was instantly soothed even if she was not exactly. Warmth pooled between this thighs, however, at being so closely entwined with Lydia, the ghoul grimacing as puerile thoughts intruded on him. Despite their insistence, he refused to act on them, simply running his long grubby nails and fingers through her hair slowly.

As she acquiesced to his suggestion, he knew from her tone that _nothing _at the moment would really make her alright, or happy, or feel better. This was a salve, a distraction, and an effort to get her far away from an overtly hostile environment….and to reclaim her, on a selfish level, back to his own lair where no one was going to call into question his motives. With a little twist of a free hand, the politely folded beetle blanket magically unfolded and pulled over her, and a little over half of himself. A marked sign of rejection leaving it in such a way, he refused to let it continue on – she was stuck with him and she seemed to know it.

With a snap of his fingers, they bodily moved from her bed to his Neitherworld couch in a blink, landing them both softly on its solid surface. Fortunately for them, at that very moment, Jacques was happily occupying his own stately chair that Betelgeuse had gotten him. It doesn't stop the skeleton from remarking in frightened surprise at their appearance, and to see them pressed to each other underneath the blanket in such a way Jacques politely averts his eyes very suddenly with another exclamation.

"Calm down," the ghost grunts, unapologetically. "You needa relax, Jacques."

"IS THAT MISS LYDIA WIT HIM," comes a yell from the kitchen, clearly Ginger, "OR IS IT JUST STINK BREATH?!"

Jacques, still refusing to look at the pair out of some sort of concept of propriety calls back, "It is zem both!"

"I'LL MAKE EXTRA CREEPY COCOA THEN! HIII MISS LYDIA!"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Hello," Lydia greeted politely, as loudly as she could muster given the circumstances. She hoped Ginger could hear her over the hum of the television and clatter of kitchen noises. There was an immediate weight gone from her chest now that she was far, far away from the demanding voices of reason in her life. No one would come for her here. _She was safe._ The hard conversations could wait.

"Oh, honey, I've gotta tell ya," Ginger continued boisterously calling from the other room, still ignorant that anything was amiss, "it's _so much easier_ navigatin' this kitchen since you organized the cabinets. Can't thank ya enough, honestly." Still gushing, the spider emerged through the doorway with three steaming mugs of creepy cocoa curled up in her long, hairy arms. Apparently, Betelgeuse had long ago been deemed unworthy of partaking in Ginger's movie night treats. Lydia promptly crawled off of her husband to the opposite end of the couch, sitting up with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders to accept her mug. She wasn't so far gone in her misery that manners had left her.

"Thank you," she managed to speak once more, even going as far as to gift the spider with a hollow little smile to show her gratitude. "Creepy Cocoa" was somewhat thicker than normal hot cocoa, darker in color, and the mini marshmallows were shaped like bats and jack-o-lanterns. After taking her first sip, Lydia decided that she never wanted regular cocoa ever again. Its warmth seeped deep down into her bones, and the rich sweet taste distracted her from the all the things that were _so terribly, horribly wrong._ Before she could take another greedy gulp, a striped arm slipped over her shoulders. A flask full of something dark and strong was tipped over into her mug, filling it back up to the lip in compensation for the sip she'd already taken.

_"BeeJay!" _Ginger about threw a fit, scowling furiously, her pink little head practically turning magenta. "You're gonna ruin it! Now it'll taste _all wrong!"_

"It's still good," Lydia assured, half-heartedly defending her husband's actions- _and yet not._ And it was still good. The heat that bubbled in her middle from sipping down the steaming sludge was now making its way to her head, which was just _lovely._

"Is something wrong, Miss Lydia?" Jacques finally seemed to pick up on her solemnity. The question distracted Ginger from her petty grievance, the wrinkle in her brow twisting from _outrage _into _concern._

"Wanna talk about it, gorgeous? If ya want, we can go in my room n' these boneheads-" the way she winked at Jacques made it clear that this was just friendly ribbing, "- can stay out here n' talk 'bout _stupid boy_ stuff. Oh, I know, I could make ya anothuh outfit! You make such a good model. Would ya like that, sugah?"

Those were entirely too many questions for Lydia to attempt answering. Eyes wide, she shrunk under the blanket, mug clutched tight to her chest. _This was a bad idea. I should have stuck to my gut instinct and curled up to die in my darkroom._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse had indeed been banned from Ginger's movie treats long ago for being absolutely disgusted with them too many times. The spider is a talented arachnid in the kitchen, and Betelgeuse eats insects. She does, however, with one additional arm pass the awful ghoul his "chum bucket" of horrific living edibles that he kept in the fridge. Maybe it's to keep him quiet, or maybe she's thanking him for bringing Lydia back to them in some way.

It was something of a consolation prize as Lydia drifted to the opposite end of the couch, however. Nonetheless, it had been almost a full week without any sort of insectoid consumption and the ghoul anxiously tore the top off his snacking bin and dove in something like a vile horse with a feed bag. He wasn't too lost in consumption, however, because he catches Lydia sucking down cocoa without any sort of spiked ensemble to it – and that just won't do.

Thus, he does indeed top it off with rum, much to Ginger's dismay. He ignores her protests just like he ignored most of the emotional outbursts sent his way in the past several hours. Lydia is learning there's not a lot she can do to stop him from his schemes when he wants them hard enough, especially when she's at an emotionally exhaustive low. Which, as it turns out, was about to be tested beyond Betelgeuse taking liberties by his overly concerned roommates.

Quickly, as he sees Lydia shrink into her blanket, he pounces angrily.

"Hey, hey – _Nothin' _is wrong," he waves them off, abrasively, bristling at their questioning. "We're gonna watch a fuckin' movie and neither one of you is gonna ask any more stupid questions, got it?"

They both back off apologetically, thankfully at that – they seem to know when Betelgeuse means it. He gives Lydia a look as if to say very sincerely _see what I mean about them now? You get it, right?_ He seems to think for a moment before putting his bucket aside and moving closer to her on the couch, as if to protect her from further inquiry.

Jacques has picked tonight's movie, a French horror film with subtitles called _Don't Deliver Us From Evil (Mais ne nous delivrez pas du mal)._ "Premise is," explains the skeleton, "Two young girls decide to worship ze devil, and it goes awry, of course, az eet always does!"

As the movie begins and his roommates settle in on Jacques fine new chair together, Betelgeuse takes the opportunity to settle in more fully against Lydia, taking a slow swig from his rum flask as she continues on with the spiked cocoa. "I haven't seen this one," he remarks, idly. "Unusual for me."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

The movie was right up Lydia's alley. That Jacques of all people picked it told her that there was much more to his stately, polite demeanor than he let on. Lydia was fascinated, titillated by the girls on screen and their sacrilege. Though she certainly didn't condone their actions, she couldn't deny the appeal of losing oneself to a life of sin, abandoning both spiritual and human law in favor of indulging in _darker _pleasures. In short, she sympathized with their plight, but only just so. They were cruel, fanatical little brats that deserved the grisly ending they got.

The boozy chocolate drink worked well to heat her from the inside out. It was delicious and she drank it down greedily. Lydia couldn't even feel the burn of rum it was so intermingled with the scalding cocoa. Ever the attentive hostess, Ginger topped her off whenever she noticed the cup was low. By her third mug, it became too warm for either the blanket or Betelgeuse's heavy arm slung over her shoulder. Smoothly, she slid out from under it and to the side to rest against the arm of the couch, shedding the blanket as she went. To let him know that this was done out of necessity, not spite or pettiness, she tucked her legs up and over his lap. Almost immediately, she could feel claw-tipped digits tracing her ankles, fingering the opening of her socks. It tickled, just a little bit, but he stopped when she squirmed.

Well, he didn't _stop _so much as his touch turned firm, purposeful rather than teasing. He actually scooted away from her, just by a few inches so that he could pull her legs out straight and position her feet on his lap to his liking. Then, he _pulled off her socks completely._

_What exactly did he think he was doing?_ She looked away from the screen to watch him, a vague question in her eyes. He didn't seem to be aware of her gawking, too fixated in studying her feet of all things- _tongue lolling out of his mouth, pupils narrowing into reptilian slits. What the fuck? Was he about to…? Was he actually going to…?_

With a snap, the jar of sweet-smelling oil he procured for her baths appeared next to him on the couch. Impatiently, nostrils flaring, he wrenched the lid off and scooped a substantial amount into his hands, quickly transferring the overly generous amount onto both of her feet. Excess oil dripped onto his pantsuit, but he seemed unconcerned. Once the tiny limbs were good and slathered, he set into work; digging strong, large thumbs into her high arches, kneading at the balls and heels. He was indiscriminate, switching attention between each foot often and without any sort of pattern.

She absolutely _melted _for him. Every muscle went slack, any tension she was holding rapidly banished by his expert stimulations. The half-empty mug of rum and chocolate was deposited on the side table, Lydia fearing that she might drop it by accident in this state of ultra-relaxation. Hazy honey eyes drifted shut while she savored the sensations, even as her breaths seemed to quicken. He was just good at everything, wasn't he? _Except telling the truth,_ a nasty voice reminded her even as a tiny groan of pleasure slipped out.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Ah, Lydia's Bad Girl Brain Closet strikes again. Though Betelgeuse can't tell at all what she's thinking, the movie being right up her alley speaks volumes about _why _they get on as well as they do. Well, that and the ghoul might be something of a bad influence, but he's probably only stoking things that are already there.

He likes this film, though he tends to chortle in all the wrong places, earning glares from his compatriots. It isn't his fault that horror movies tend to read more like comedies to him, since death and dying, the _final hurdle,_ has been crossed and he knows exactly what's on the other side. Devil worship is _additionally _hilarious, because the only Satan he's ever worshipped comes in the form of a big-breasted Dante's girl. In order to stop laughing and annoying his roommates, he's gonna need a distraction, of course, and that comes in the form of poor Lydia's little tootsies. She needs to _relax… _and he's here to _help._

The gravelly, mischievous low chuckle he makes as he pulls her socks off is definitely _not _the sort of thing to earn her confidence though, and neither is the look on his face once he does. This innocent seeming gesture, well, innocent to anyone else maybe, has thoroughly distracted him from any kind of movie watching. He finally has her in his clutches in a position to _finally _get a little foot action going for himself and he's not about to pass it up. He lubes her up good with that oil he got from the Patel's_ (he didn't deserve any of their generosity, really),_ and although he's not a fan of the smell _(coulda been more skunk-like),_ he gets to work. In a way, this was almost just as good as cuddling her, or undressing her, or rubbing his dick sneakily up behind her except he could do it well out in the open. His strong, pale thumbs pushed up the center of her petite soles, and the mere sensation of her tender skin against his fingers was enough to make him shudder briefly. Sex in full display of people you call friends was gauche, but what's a little innocent foot massage, right?

He doesn't get too lost, but he does indulge heavily, easily rolling in slow circles here, pushing on the tops of the balls of her feet there, almost _grunting _as he strokes on her delicate little toes. Her foot almost disappears completely into the size of his hands, he's quite a bit larger than her and so manipulating her physically was easy. He watches her carefully when he isn't ogling how her skin shifts and rolls under his attentions, how soft her skin is against his hand, the sweeping curves of her flesh, and so he catches when her eyes start to close. He also catches her moan, and a nasty little grin splits his face. _She likes this, does she?_ He knew she would, if only because he knows things she doesn't about feet in particular. Both of his thumbs slide greasily towards her heels, and finding a spot between her arch and the bottom of her soles carefully he strokes, and rubs, and caresses her on both feet at once. He keeps his eyes trained on her with interest, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth just enough, that predatory, lascivious expression finding a hard time disappearing from his face.

His roommates weren't particularly interested in this and seemed too distracted by the more dramatic portions of the film now that Betelgeuse wasn't mucking up the dramatic tension. That of course meant that he could indulge another fetish of his – _getting away with something right under everyone's nose._

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

It was too _hot._ Lydia was floating on a cloud of pleasant feelings; every muscle pliant, almost liquefied beneath her skin, head swimming. With her eyes closed the way they were, all that could be heard was indistinct French dialogue from the film. Almost all of the oil had seeped into the flesh there, softening it even further, except for a sheen coat that let Betelgeuse's large, strong hands easily slide and squeeze as he wished. The only problem she had- _more vital complications miraculously, temporarily banished for another time-_ was that it was entirely too hot.

She stretched, squirming until her crop top rucked up a bit, exposing the scant few inches of milky white midriff below her breasts and above her long, high-waisted skirt. With a lazy tug, the chiffon fabric was easily pulled up over her knees, a little below mid-thigh, freeing even more of her flesh to the open air. This helped, but only some. Humming in content nonetheless, Lydia shifted, turning slowly until she was laying on her side, pressing herself into the parts of the couch that hadn't absorbed her warmth. An inflamed cheek flattened against the cool fabric, offering her a bit of relief.

_"Ohh,"_ she moaned breathily as he pushed down hard on what was apparently an extremely tender area, making a pleasurable tingle shudder her spine. Satin lips, ruddier than usual, parted to gasp as he kept at it, digging in mercilessly. People were screaming on the television, and this was enough to open Lydia's eyes back up. _The satanic schoolgirls were burning!_ The sight alone of their scorching demise inspired sympathy from her once more and served to make her all the more aware of her own flaming consumption.

_Her thighs were sticky._ Was… was she getting _off _on this? It wasn't enough that she was an alleged necrophiliac, now she had to be some kind of foot-fetishizing sicko, too? _How dismally embarrassing._ Betelgeuse could **never **know.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse is fairly talented with making problems _disappear temporarily_ only to return later in some sort of horrific monstrous _larger problem._ Fortunately, for now, Lydia's issues are just…perhaps _waylaid _and this won't evolve into the aforementioned. He almost let loose an audible hiss, though, as she squirms enough to scoot her little cropped shirt up to reveal a large swath of creamy, pale skin illuminated by the television's flickering light.

He desperately, fervently wanted to frottage against her slick soles, mount her shamelessly, run a hand down that soft, sweet skin and settle his fingers between her overly warm thighs. Instead, he settles for continuing to push his fingers all up and down her arches, giving her momentary breaks from the spots he knew would only make her flushed state altogether worse. Her shifting around was a clear indicator that she was indeed overly warm, from the liquor and his steady attentions. While _she _probably didn't think he noticed her signs of steady, growing arousal, or the scent of her becoming that way, she was sorely mistaken

As the movie starts the crescendo to the end, it also takes his attention briefly. The girls had immolated themselves alive in their final Satanic act, their parents howling and sobbing uselessly from the audience. The fire also starts a stampede for the door, and the film cuts to the outside of the building. It seems as though everyone inside will now burn alive along with the doomed pair.

In that final act of violence depicted on screen, Betelgeuse's touch has become more intensive, his cool hands probably something of a relief on her skin. He licks his lips slowly, glancing down at his poor wife. He leans over her, then, leaning down to mutter into her ear in a thick whisper.

"Second movie, 'r you wanna go cool off?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia blinked up at him, listless and a tad unfocused, unsure of what she truly wanted. As usual, she remained for the most part oblivious to Betelgeuse's ulterior motives. As far as she knew, he was trying to be good and attentive to her and she was the one deriving perverse, misguided pleasure from it. Something told her he _definitely _wouldn't mind if he knew, but she wasn't quite willing to give him that kind of ammo against her. Not right now. She simply didn't have the capacity to endure the monstrous teasing that knowledge would bring about.

Before answering, she leaned up on her elbows to grab her mug of tepid cocoa and gulp down the last half of it. A sudden buzzing rush flooded her senses, the alcohol taking hold a bit quicker due to the greedy way it was flushed through her system. Eyelashes fluttering from lightheadedness, she managed to get the cup back on the side table. Then, she leaned up to meet her husband where he had bent toward her and wrapped both arms around his neck firmly, anchoring herself, making it clear without words that she expected him to carry her.

"I'll fall asleep if we watch another," she yawned into his neck, pressing herself into his coolness. How was it his skin always seemed to know which temperature she needed it to be? There was no rhyme or reason to it. It was either room temperature, or frigid, or downright searing, but there was no denying that it always felt good against hers. _"There are too many people out here,"_ she whispered low, not wishing to hurt Ginger or Jacque's feelings.

This was more she had spoken at one time since reuniting from their week-long separation. Her vocal cords appeared to be operating for her again, time, alcohol, and his thorough massage dulling the sharp pain in her chest to throbbing bearable pangs.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse's eyebrows arched as the dedicated little teenager practically guzzled the rest of her rum soaked hot cocoa before giving him any sort of answer. And what an answer she winds up giving him, too – her long and graceful arms wrap around his relatively thick neck in a clear indicator of the desire that she wanted to be _carried._

His face scrunches happily, nastily, in that grimace of a grin that showed all his dirty little teeth and a good portion of stained gums. She yawns adorably into his moss besotted neck, mumbling about falling asleep if another movie should go by, and that's when he lifts her up with him easily. He's strong as he's proven earlier and she's petite in comparison, and it would be terribly sweet if only _this _didn't somehow arouse him all the more, having her pitiably cling to him in sleepy drunkenness.

It almost screams _take decadent advantage of me,_ and he can't help but think of all the things he could do to her in this state easily while he supports her against him as he eases off the couch. One hand cradles her behind her head, the other underneath and around her rump, and he nods understandably about her desire to be quite alone with him – for the most part, that's the only thing he wants with her, too.

"Don't worry princess," he whispers back in a pleased breathy sort of snicker, "I'll get ya outta here." He's had enough of company too, but then, it's turning out that Lydia is the only person he can stomach for more than a few hours and that's saying something. She's also probably the only person who can stomach _him _for a few hours.

He was also happy to have her talking again too. Like carrying an overtired child, he takes Lydia up and away from the couch, grunting his departure to Jacques and Ginger unceremoniously. They were accustomed to his abrupt nature and both of them only gave a vague, cheerful wave to Lydia who they could see past one of his shoulders. He totes his wife back down the strangely lit corrugated metal hallway into his room, where he carefully deposits her into his coffin. It's a bit of a relief, probably, unlike the couch the coffin is peculiarly well aerated and hasn't had her overly warm skin pushing into it for an hour.

He climbs in next to her, a hand idly pawing up one of her legs underneath her skirt without any real initial direction, it seems to be an affectionate gesture at least, at first. He mostly just likes feeling her up, that's obvious. It sneaks around to the front, though after a moment under the gauzy fabric and one of his brows quirks with interest. "…you're a little ah….sticky, Lyds." The hand withdraws, and he licks the digits with disgusting pleasure, "I give pretty good foot rubs I take it? Couldn't have been the movie…unless, y'know, you like that kinda thing."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"You do," she admitted breezily, stretching into the cool, soft velvet lining of his coffin. It felt so nice. She wasn't even embarrassed by the lewd manner with which he called her out. That wasn't as bad as it could have been. There was a precious moment of calm where all she did was lay limber beside him; arms above her head, breathing deeply, watching stars dance behind her eyelids while Betelgeuse pet her soft, slow, and aimlessly. Outwardly the girl appeared gone from the waking realm, brow smooth and lips parted. The thick wave of raven hair fanned out beneath her- _brushed glossy, curling at the ends-_ was silhouetted exquisitely against the sea of red, like the richest of inks spilling into a vat of blood. This only served Lydia to more intimately resemble the tragic princess her husband lovingly dubbed her as.

Once the stars tired of dancing, honey eyes cracked open without the help of a rousing kiss. Lazily, they met Betelgeuse's eternally electric gaze, wide awake and burning down at her.

_"I missed you,"_ she repeated, sad and sweet, regretfully. As though she wished she hadn't. Decision made, she shifted against him _firmly,_ nudging a knee between his legs the way he had once done to her. Extending up and straining to do so, she pressed a kiss first to his jaw, then directly to his wintry lips before lying back down. They were more than pecks, with a lingering passion that belied her intent. Somber and wanting all at once, she gazed up at him, giving silent permission for him to slake his lust.

This was learned behavior, really. After watching Charles and Delia Deetz lean on their crutches for so many years, Lydia couldn't help but think that it was only fair she let herself have one. If she was going to drown her pain in rum, why not indulge in all of her _other _vices as well? Now was as good a time as any.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Lydia, for the moment, looked like she utterly belonged in that coffin. Like a perfect bombazine figurine, her pale skin and black ocean of hair and clothes, her lithe form stretched in some form of sleepy ecstasy across the red velvet. Those pale but pink lips were parted breathlessly, and Betelgeuse studied her as she closed her eyes, dark jade eyes intensely taking in all her beautiful detail.

Eventually, she roused and gazed up at him with those eyes of hers – those sad, honeyed eyes, lazily lidded, which only served to make her look sexier to him. She was so incredibly resplendent when she was sad, and even more-so when she cried, those shy, emotional big eyes of hers took on a life of their own. It made his throat catch, briefly, just to look at her. So _vulnerable _– it was perhaps this frailty in her appearance that attracted him to her in the first place. Lydia had cowered so thoroughly at his snake form, some sort of visual allegory for a phallus most likely, so tragically pressed to the wall as if devastatingly resigned to her fate and every part of him had wanted to take her in that moment. Damn the Maitlands for interrupting him! The vision that was _Edgar Allen Poe's_ daughter hadn't left him since, though, and even though the other ghosts had _delayed _his claim on this prize, they had not fortunately _stopped _it.

Lydia's admission to missing him, so forlorn in tone, caused a noise of faux-pity to purr from his throat. It changes into a deeper, grittier thing as her luscious leg pushes up between his own, however. Her little gestures of reciprocation and seduction work instantaneously, he grinds onto her leg with a slow roll of his hips so she can feel the firm ridge of his thick arousal against her and he shudders needfully. As she stretches up gracefully to kiss him, he leans into Lydia's soft, sumptuous and youthful lips as hungrily as when they'd first met; that bubbling, searing heat that lives just beneath the surface for her alone flooding his senses. She leans back into his casket then, with that silent, imploring gaze of hers – granting him _permission _of a kind, and he complains low in his throat in a helpless, desirous fashion.

"I missed you too. You know I'd rather be spendin' time with you versus anyone else, right? And not just 'cause you make me horny. But _god damn, girl,_ you _do _make me horny."

His hands slide up her skirt, rucking it up for him, cupping around the gentle curves of her asscheeks. He uses this as an anchor to roll himself over atop her smoothly with a grunt, his bulk and weight resting atop her, crushing her underneath him briefly. He works his still clothed hips rudely between her thighs, unable to stop himself from at least rubbing himself against her for a while selfishly, so anxious and yearning for that wet, living heat. He's _aching _and breathless already, and he sloppily kisses his filthy mouth down her flawless neck.

"All I want baby…" he growls between those kisses, a plea to his tone, "…is to fuck ya….so _hard… _I wanna fuck you so hard it _hurts…_."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

The brief moments he spent resting his entire weight atop her, crushing her, pushing the air from her lungs were absolute _bliss._ Oxygen was overrated. Roughly, his broad hips wrenched her thighs apart so he could force himself up against her. She wasn't wearing any underwear. It wasn't on purpose. This was no half-baked attempt at seduction. A growth of short, sleek raven hairs coated her mound- proof that she had not been expecting to see him today. Like many other girls and women of all ages, porn and the media had taught her that men preferred women clean shaven and so that is how she sought to present herself. _Wife material._

Fleetingly, she worried that he might be deterred by the sight or feel of it, squirming under her skin at the thought, but then he sunk blunt, grimy teeth into her throat, branding her as _his _once more, and any uncertainty was forgotten. A calloused hand had already found its way under her shirt to squeeze and knead at her breast, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. His digits pinched with just the right amount of pressure to keep her on the precipice of pain- _just a taste._

"I'm _yours,"_ she reminded torturously in response to his heated begging, lost in the sensations. Intoxicated, overwhelmed by the stinging pleasure she derived from his roughish treatment, her resolution to let him romance her properly was forgotten. "You _can."_ She clung to him desperately, arms around his shoulders, legs around his back, taking everything he had to give and encouraging further abuse. _This._ This was the distraction she needed. _"Please make me feel good."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

_"Please make me feel good."_

Betelgeuse's whole body shudders in wanton agony, fully prepared to yank down his pants and ravage her like an absolutely depraved sexual animal. That is, until his brain supplied him with a frightful image of her corroded mother, writhing underneath him, saying _almost _the same thing, in almost _exactly _the same voice. _"Please stay with me…"_

His body stiffens and he seemed to suddenly, woefully remember himself. _Fucking….hell._ If someone had planned this divine torture for him, it was so beautifully orchestrated that they deserved some kind of eternal credit for their twisted imaginings. No, Betelgeuse would not have Lydia here, and drunk – only to wake up with a broken heart and everything else in pain – he couldn't do it. The villain in him was quieted briefly, if only for her. _Damn _this girl.

"I will, kitten. Have I ever letcha down? I'm gonna make you feel _real good._ You were keepin' ready for my return, hn?" he finally grunts in exchange as he eases off Lydia's bitten neck, his hand finding purchase between her thighs, underneath his hips. A thumb tenderly runs over the short, velvety fur that had grown out in his absence. Unbeknownst to her, of course, Betelgeuse liked it. He'd like any state she came in, but the shy thatch of hair was perfectly up his alley, and a picture of part of her naiveté and youth. Lydia wasn't, of course, without her underthings for _him _\- but Betelgeuse likes the idea of it. "Hopin' I'd sneak up anytime, take advantage of this?" he squeezes gently, two broad fingers sliding down between the soft folds of her outer labia, dragging against the sensitive smaller inner folds as he does. She's so deliciously warm there, so tender, and his broad fingers stroke her slowly, his thumb rubbing at her clit._ "Naughty…." _The fire it seems has been tamped, but hardly extinguished.

Lydia was woefully beyond remembering the last time he devoured her, and so he's determined to do it again to supplicate her in lieu of breaking her. He ducks out from underneath her arms and works his way down her side within the coffin, biting, sucking her in places, licking, making filthy, pleased noises to himself. His bulky body shifts and slides between her thighs as he crawls downwards over her. He has to hunch close to the bottom of the strange bed as it isn't exceptionally long, but it seems to work just as well once his shoulders are past her legs and she can brace the bottoms of her thighs against them. Hungrily, he doesn't pause, his tongue is writhing in action quickly and lapping at her like a heated, determined creature. The slimy, broad, striped appendage is demanding, fervid. She tastes _heavenly,_ and Betelgeuse only wants more.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_"Hopin' I'd sneak up anytime, take advantage of this?"_

Lydia couldn't say with one-hundred percent certainty that she hadn't considered the possibility of him popping in unexpectedly, cornering her, tucking his hands under her clothes and praising her for being _ready _for him. The thought crossed her mind, anyway. He always came with good news in her fantasies, already having arranged some sort of peaceful truce with Mr. and Mrs. Maitland. How incredibly stupid she was. The girl only had scant seconds to wallow in her musings before he was stroking her most sensitive place, ragged claws raking along her pubic hair in a way that told her he was far from repulsed by it. Molten lava coursed through her at his touch, burning her pain away like she knew it would. _"Naughty…"_

"I don't know," she mumbled feverishly, grabbing at him, making an attempt at the truth. "I don't know. Maybe."

Her clothing was light and flimsy, worn for comfort and to stave off the living world's late Spring heat. She was lucky he didn't simply tear them away like tissue on his scorching trek down her body, instead pawing the meager things out of the way whenever they interfered with his onslaught. The last time he did this, it was sweet and slow with Lydia plotting the course. Now, he was _possessed,_ sweeping his starving tongue across her glistening lips with persistent swipes, greedily lapping up her essence. It wasn't enough, though. A meaty hand came to grasp her tit roughly, talons digging in, and he growled into her, as if in warning.

Lydia didn't know what he wanted. Eager to please, she stroked his wiry hair very gently and mewled louder under his attention, hips twisting sinuously into his mouth. This wasn't enough either. He only growled louder, pressing his face harder against her, the sudden unforgiving friction almost making her yelp. Then, something entered her. It wasn't his fingers- _or the other thing._ It was too soft, too pliable, wriggling and writhing and extending within her to inhuman lengths. Still, it was _thick,_ and the sudden forceful _stretch _imbued a facet of distress into her ardent cries while she trembled beneath him. The cruel hand on her breast softened and his growl calmed to more of a purr.

"Oh," she lauded, fisting his hair reflexively as he made sweet love to her with his mouth, "oh, _Beej!_ It's so _big!_ I can't- I can't- I- _ungh-"_ Her peak came swiftly and powerfully; back arching high off the bloody velvet, porcelain flesh misted with sweat, cheeks flushed and head thrashing side to side in delirium._ "I love you!"_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse didn't do _truces._ He did schemes, and other sorts of things. This for that, always – if a truce was to be had, the Maitlands were gonna have to _cough up somethin' real good._ Of course, Betelgeuse wasn't at all aware of the hypothetical potential of a dressing down from Adam Maitland in his future, either. For now, he had his sweet wife all to himself to abuse recklessly, and all of her sweet naiveté to take advantage of.

And indeed, he was demanding of Lydia this evening – he had missed her, and that came along with it the pertinent, unabating lust he had for her of course. He had drawn her out, too, from the sad little sallow creature huddled in her bedroom, wanting for all the world to be _left alone_ into the writhing, sweet bud ready to bloom underneath his attentions. Betelgeuse was good at baiting, and he was good at vice, and he was good at the confidence trick – eager to indulge Lydia in some drinking, and sex, and _forgetting._ His intentions were good, really, even if his actions weren't particularly. If she was going to be hurting, it might as well be for a fun reason, right? He's always found physical pain easier to process than emotional pain, himself. With her tendencies, he couldn't imagine she was much different.

Betelgeuse couldn't help himself when it came to his consumption of her either, his tongue, lips and mouth working her unrepentantly, the taste of her alone making him something of a _wild thing._ Her gentle encouragement only made him growl, needing more, sexual frustration resuming steadily and building in his system. It isn't until she trembles and cries out for him as his tongue plunges its snakelike, writhing girth into her that he relaxes somewhat. That's the sort of reaction he likes from Lydia, and he soon caresses down her side lightly as he fucks her relentlessly with his unmerciful tongue. This was close as Betelgeuse could get to the real thing without ruining his plan to take her properly at the right moment, and it was the closest he could bring her to feeling how relentless _that _could be. All her muscles clamp, squeeze and pull at the length of his awful appendage luxuriously, the poor girl stretched wide for him until she can't stand it. Lydia mewls the most lovely and pitiable things to him, as if thoroughly overwhelmed, before she comes hard for him, her whole body arching like a tightly strung bow.

She's beautiful like that, her whole body tight, her movements torturously pleasured; but he only has a moment to admire it before she suddenly and explosively professes to him her love. Betelgeuse knew he had a talent with this sort of thing, but _that's _awfully impressive. It's the first time she's said as much, although he's gotten the full picture of things other ways. As she comes down from her high peak, he can feel her internally thrumming with slow, elongated pulses against him. His tongue slowly and mercifully withdraws, and he nuzzles at Lydia's inner thigh with dark, glittering eyes that gaze up at her. He hesitates, wondering if the admission was only said out of an orgasmic rush or drunken liberation. Did she _really…?_

"I love you, too, Lyds" he says, finally, and then wrinkles his face in an impish smile, "I 'specially love the view from down here. Ha!"

Well, it might get him kicked in the face, but that was better than _I've never been so scared of losing something in my entire afterlife._ Seemed a bit too heavy for post-coitus admissions or discussion.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Deception and duplicity were skills far beyond Lydia's reach in the wake of the euphoric bliss Betelgeuse had just dealt out. If she said she loved him- _oh God, why did she say that?-_ then it must have been the truth. Though the girl was a stranger to the finer points of romance, she was quite certain of her feelings. When he was gone, she counted the minutes until his return, and when he was there, he made her feel emotions that no one else had ever come close to inspiring. Even at his absolute worst, she'd rather share her company with him than just about anyone else- and he was the worst. He was terrible. Given the opportunity, he would take advantage of her feelings to get what he wanted. He would use her to exact his petty vengeance on Adam and Barbara, and she had given him everything he needed.

Villainy aside, it was sweet of him to attempt fabricating feelings for her, even going as far as to voice them. That must have taken considerable effort on his part. Nevertheless, Lydia wasn't interested in the fairytale he was trying to spin. Fairytales weren't real, she knew that now. The Hero would never save the Princess, the long-lost Queen would never return to claim her crown, the King would never find the strength needed to remove the sword from the stone, and the bad guy always won in the end.

_"Don't-" _She choked, brow furrowing, shaking her head in adamant denial. "You don't… you don't have to _lie."_ There was no malice or hurt in her accusation. Just heartbreaking resignation clouded by her rapidly fading orgasmic elation. "It's okay, _really,"_ she reassured, trying her best to impart that he didn't have to coddle her heart like she was some lovesick teenager. She could accept the reality of the situation. "I don't need it. Donny told me you would never love me."

In direct contrast to what she was saying, she couldn't look at him, terrified that the tale she was spinning- _that she was an indestructible, mature woman who did not need his love-_ would come crashing down around her if she did.

"So just… don't worry about it. I shouldn't have said that. I mean- _it's true-_ but- but you don't have to say things just because I… said things. I'm _okay."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Beetlejuice looks to Lydia's right thigh, and then her left, and then at the slick flesh of her mons, and then back up at her. "No," he argues, "The view from down here is excellent babes. Honest!"

He's obviously teasing, because after a moment he extricates himself from below her in order to climb somewhat over her. He's still wound up but he's ignoring it pointedly in order to settle against her side weightily and address _this larger thing._ He puts his cheek in his hand and looks down at her for a moment, as if in mild disbelief at her mental gymnastics.

"Lyds, _first _of all – I don't know when y'started listening to my brother, but take some advice: _don't,"_ his tone is sincere, and vaguely annoyed. Betelgeuse holds up one clawed, dirty finger, and then adds another to the first, "Second, if you think I would haul my ass back into the waiting room to go _help the two people who fed me to a sandworm, stopped me from marrying you, and sent me to ghost prison_ because I'm just such a great guy, well. I mean, I am great obviously, but I'm not _that _great. I do stuff for ya 'cause I love ya. I haven't …. I keep puttin' ya _off _because we still have ….y'know, you deserve dates, n' romance, n' the things you like," the last is said almost shyly.

His brows arch mildly with another thought, "If I didn't love ya, Winter River would be raised by now, babes. It would be my own _personal _hell on earth for everyone else, where every breather for miles would be forced to be my own dog n' pony show. King B, y'know? I'm practically demi-god status at this point, but I'm here, in this coffin, wantin' you to not be so hurt over….the cards you were dealt. I work still, so I can give you the freaky, happy life you _deserve._ I could be out there making everyone's life a living hell, but I'm here with you making _your _life a living hell. If that isn't love, I don't know what is, Lyds. I know this was supposed to be a _marriage of inconvenience,_ I've tried to _inconvenience _you at every turn but you've stuck around."

He twirls her hair into his fingers, then, "And, y'know. It could be Stockholm Syndrome on your part versus love, but I'll take one or the other really, I'm not picky. Whatever lets me be around you."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"I don't have _Stockholm Syndrome!"_ She insisted first, pouting, feeling a hypocritical stab of hurt that he would deny the validity of her feelings. "I _do _love you!" Allegations of mental illness aside, he made a solid argument. Lydia couldn't poke any holes in it… but then again, he was an excellent con man.

"Are you really that powerful?" She finally queried in a whisper, gazing up at his grisly visage with something akin to awe and disbelief. Reality bent at his whim. Any and everything he wanted he made appear with a blink, a snap, or a crook of his dastardly fingers. If he was who he claimed to be, why was he wasting his time with her? Could it be… was it possible that her heart was the con? That, in truth, all the lies he told and games he played weren't bred of boredom or lust for cheap thrills, but of a desire to win her love… _in return?_ Everything was too fuzzy for Lydia to trust her own logic, and so once more, perhaps foolishly, she would place her faith in his.

"Promise me you're not lying," she beseeched, all the ache and pain she carried pouring out in that one pitiful plea. "I don't… I don't think my heart can take any more hits, B."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Yep," Betegeuse replies casually to Lydia's inquiry regarding his powers, scuffing his nails egotistically on the front of his suit jacket, "I'm kinda a big deal now. I mean, I always was, y'know, pretty famous…but this _really _puts me on the map. I say _demi _because there's still _some limitations_ but they're hardly worth mentionin'."

He takes a deep, slow inhale, then, and studies her after Lydia pleas with him. He _knows,_ that's for certain, but he studies her carefully.

"I promise," he replies, slowly. "Cross my heart and hope to—eh, ah, that won't work. Anyway, I promise. I'm gonna warn ya," he says, tone firm, "I don't know _how _to love right sometimes, though I'd like to think I'm better than your entire stupid family at it – it's…been a long time since I did… have _any _of these… _feelings _for anybody. Ole ticker works great as in it stopped operating when I bit the big one, but …" He taps his temple confidently, "This up here, I'm a _brilliant _mind and that sometimes comes with …some…quirks."

He pauses and says in an apologetic, fast breath almost out of the corner of his mouth, "Like really enjoying torturin' your entire stupid family a whole lot."

Betelgeuse's arms curled around her small body then, his large head settling to rest on her slim shoulder. It's heavy, and his wiry, tangled mess of balding hair most likely tickles her a little. "You're like a light in a dark room. A real bright light. Brighter than you know."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"That was really beautiful, Romeo," Lydia teased affectionately, petting down his coarse mane as he settled against her, fingers eventually coming to curl sweetly around his neck and into his nape. That she was able to joke with him at all was a miracle in and of itself. "I don't think you make a _terrible _Prince Charming when you put your mind to it." It was easy to ignore the ominous nature of that threat to her family when he was holding her so covetously, pressing down just enough of that bulky weight to force her breaths deeper.

This… this _monster _loved her, and she loved him. At that moment, every part of her being hummed in delight; physical flesh buzzing from carnal pleasures, punishing voices muted by drink, and spirit balmed. Eyes shut and lips curled into the barest, most gentle of smiles, she recited more Shakespeare for him, unable to _completely _let go his promise to torture her family. _What was he gonna do? Spank her?_

"O serpent heart," she accused breathily with faux-hurt, "hid with a flowering face! Did ever dragon keep _so fair_ a cave? Beautiful _tyrant,_ fiend _angelical,_ dove-feathered _raven,_ wolvish, ravening _lamb."_ Soft and easy, she pet him even as she continued to chant prose at his expense. Not wishing to push her luck, she skipped through to the end of the monologue, practically breathless at this point. "Was ever book containing such vile matter so fairly bound? O that deceit should dwell in such a _gorgeous _palace."


	13. The Kingdom

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Despite not needing it, Betelgeuse for the first time in a long time had had a deep, dreamless sleep. He and Lydia had stayed approximately in the same places in the coffin all night, with him spooning her, or resting against her side. They had a war of poetry that went awry into switching genres back and forth (_the Poe battle was the most intense_) before the girl had become too tired to continue, and so he had conceded to her (_she had won fair and square, in reality_).

He didn't leave all night, for once. For once, he was solidly still – his fevered brain at ease. He arose in the Neitherworld equivalent of "morning" before Lydia did, of course, and briefly entered the kitchen for coffee which didn't do anything for his energy levels and a blunt that barely touched the edges of his ghostly consciousness. Rhythm was comfort, routine was comfort. He ate a handful of roaches from within a jar on the counter, the insects partially getting stuck in his teeth. Trying to suck their little legs out from between them vaguely he shuffled back into the bedroom.

He climbed back into his deathbed and sat propped up for a time, smoking weed and drinking coffee, and watching Lydia sleep. His thoughts were slowly fading in from sleep, and he crossed his ankles comfortably, a grimy hand gently pulling through the raven locks of the drowsing beauty against him.

Maybe he would offer some sort of explicit peace contract to the Maitlands. Maybe that was the blunt talking. He put on his reading glasses and pulled the day's paper from within the robe he wore as of waking up. Stock quotes, political news, obits. A weird parallel of the living world, and yet not at all – he summoned a pen and busied himself with the crossword puzzle.

He was going to have to go back there to get her things. He grimaced at the thought, and chewed on the pen in his hand. Maybe he could just send a Sandworm-o-Gram instead. If they were eaten, they couldn't give Lydia a hard time right? Plus, talk about poetic justice. He chuckled at the idea aloud, unable to help himself. If he pranked them enough, they'd at least be _distracted _from Lydia's transgressions? He grunted, knowing it wasn't true, and filled out 4-down.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

For the first time ever, Lydia awoke curled against her husband after having spent the whole night through sleeping at his side. It would have been a momentous occasion if only her head weren't pounding and that horrible taste wasn't sticking to her tongue. Moaning low, she cuddled harder into his gut and under the blanket, trying in vain to cling to unawareness. What time was it even? She squinted at the watch on her wrist, blurrily making out that it was thirteen o'clock. Helpful.

It was nice and dim in his room, heavy curtains blocking out any light that might have filtered in, and a smattering of lit candles strewn romantically about the room. A dank, familiar scent burnt at her nostrils and Lydia immediately sat up some, eyelids fluttering as she embraced consciousness.

"… are you smoking _pot?"_ Lydia had smoked a joint or two in her day, but nothing as thickly or expertly rolled as the fat blunt between his claws. The half-crooked grin and brow she got in return was answer enough to her question. "Gimme that." Stretching out onto her back, she accepted it as it was passed her way and took a deep drag. _Ah._ That was nice.

"So…" She began after taking several deep hits, pausing to tap ash from the end of the cigar-like thing over the edge of his coffin carelessly, before passing it back his way. "Is this like… _pot _pot, or is it something silly like _bloody mary jane."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Mm, that's nice. The ghost apparently likes it when she wakes up and snuggles into his belly like that. That's something he could get used to. She has an adorable groggy face, besides. Betelgeuse hadn't woken up _next _to anyone in something hinging on …oh, at least …maybe ever, actually. Waking up alone, as it turns out, _sucked._ This was way, _way _better. Something perked inside of him, and he realized he was _excited _to see her awake, as if he had missed her while she was asleep. _That _was a new, interesting feeling to digest.

As she rouses and realizes he's smoking, Betelgeuse has to wait a beat after she asks exactly what kind of pot he's partaking in. It's beautiful, really, the way she sleepily waltzes into his little linguistic trap. He passes the blunt over to her with interest.

"Lyds….that's not any kinda mary jane nothin'," the ghost returns, looking down at her very seriously, "….that's just a _roach!"_

He grins enormously and buries his face in his coffee, fully expecting her to sock him for that one as he so very well deserves.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Rather than beating him to a gory pulp, which he definitely deserved, Lydia broke into a bout of silly giggles. Her throbbing headache was quickly fading away as the blunt took effect. _This was good shit._ Better stuff than the losers at her old high school could ever get a hold of. Lydia wasn't surprised. As gauche as Betelgeuse was, he had proven himself to have expensive tastes.

"That was _awful,"_ she gasped out near the end of her fit, cheeks red and hair mussed. "I should _divorce _you for that one."

Lydia didn't want to leave. His coffin was cozy, warm from all their snuggling, the mood was easy, and there wasn't any harsh sun to speak of to shed light on her myriad of issues. Wishing to stay there with him forever, she curled beneath his collarbone and watched in silence as he did his crossword, sometimes chiming in whenever she could be of help. Unfortunately, his mug drained of all its coffee, the roach burnt out, and he eventually ran out of blocks to fill. Other than wasting the day away, neither of them really had a good excuse to continue ignoring the world outside his crypt.

"They're going to be so disappointed in me," she hushed her dread into his ribs, face firmly pressed to his side. Whether she referred to her parents, or the Maitlands, or all four of them was irrelevant. The truth remained the same across the board. "They're all going to want to know _why _and I- I don't know what to tell them, Beej. If I even tried to begin to explain they'd probably have me committed. _It wouldn't be the first time."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse had expensive tastes, yes – but he was always flat broke. So he had to spend selectively, or at least somehow grift along to get what he deemed he needed. The story behind his chintzy ruby ring was unknown, but he was probably buried with it. He used things hard altogether and nothing ever seemed to stay very new in the Neitherworld anyway. Even the velvet lining of his coffin had places where the soft plush had worn thin, so his lavishly presented lifestyle was a bit _out of date –_ much like the crumbling Playboy mansion, his existence bespoke of someone who enjoyed living much larger than they could ever hope to be. That being said, his selective spending tended towards not skimping with vices, and when you're dead…the sky was the limit. It was _easy _to acquire things like weed. For about fifteen years he heavily enjoyed cocaine, and then heroin for another twenty or so. Drinking and smoking were the largest of his two pleasures though, and a blunt now and again was awfully delicious.

_Especially _when he got to share it with Lydia, it seems. He was all too happy to get her to do things she shouldn't supposed to be doing according to the rest of the living world.

Additionally, it had been a _long time_ since he laughed _with _someone instead of at them. They both sat up in his coffin, cackling together at his _wretched _joke, and for the first time in a long time, the ghost sudden realized he was consumed with an emotion he hadn't thought he could genuinely feel in a long time: true, unfiltered happiness. His joy always came along with something _else _– spite, bitterness, anger, the sweet meanness of revenge. And although he had felt that emotion slipping in a number of times with Lydia, it suddenly didn't come with anything else – nervousness, or guilt, or worry. Considering the day they had yesterday, it was _bliss._ He felt _electric and alive._

No emotional monsters or parents or friends infringed upon them this morning. Lydia tucked up against him easily and helped him with the crossword. She had a _much _wider vocabulary than he did, and actually surprised him with a few of the answers that were specifically Neitherworld based. "That's Slimy Sal's Slug Emporium," she had pointed at one of the clues, "We passed it once, it was such a weird name I remembered it." Betelgeuse had dutifully filled in 'Sals', and appeared very impressed that it was the correct answer.

As things dwindled, however, the blunt spent and the coffee drank, and the crossword puzzle finished, the outside world threatened once more. He reached over, drawing his fingers through Lydia's hair, his face twisting into a grimace at her concern….and that last bit of admission.

"_Committed….?" _he queries initially, and then dismisses it out of hand. Of course her parents would have sent her off to some loony bin. Why help her when you can just send her away? Anger whirls through his chest, interrupting the happiness that lingered for longer than it had within him for a long time. "Forget it, Lyds," he mutters, "It doesn't matter… 'cause they're gonna be real _extra _disappointed."

From within the pocket of his loosely tied, decaying plush robe he pulls a roll of paper using the hand previously holding the newspaper. The roll is more like parchment, really and it looks like it's been through the ringer, but he passes it to her.

"Primarily because I'm makin' ya queen of yer own castle."

He'd been waiting on this, to be real. He had purchased the lighthouse some time ago, but was sitting on it _just in case…_ but, considering she had absolutely admitted to him her love last night in a fit of pique, he figures now was a good a time as any. She could use some good news. He hopes she isn't angry with him for taking the liberty, but he hurriedly explains, almost babbling, "I just thought…maybe…you could use a place to kinda…get _away,_ and I thought, y'know, we _would _live together _eventually _if y'wanted to, so I wasn't _lyin' _to ya when I brought you to the office, I just…was _multitasking,_ y'know…anyway, this place is yours, if y'want it, it's in your name."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_"… what?"_

The choked whisper came after several agonizing beats of silence. She heard what he was saying, but it didn't make any sense. Neither did the words on the aging document before her, the ones that certified Lydia Deetz as the official proprietor of one _666 Creeping Cove,_ as well as _three-hundred acres_ of beach, cliff, and ocean spreading out in either direction from the property in question.

The trip they took weeks prior to look at houses in that droll little office space had at one time been written off as a romantic, domestic whim of her husband's- nothing more, nothing less. Hardly worth getting her hopes up for. Yesterday, Barbara cruelly yanked away her rose-colored glasses to reveal Betelgeuse's insidious motivations for taking her there- _a ploy to hurt them, rub her in their faces. _Nevertheless, Lydia had already forgiven him and hadn't any intention of dissecting the hurtful matter further ever again. Now, here he was turning her worldview upside down once more. The bastard didn't even warn her.

"You bought me a _house?"_ The end of the query came out shrill and breathless. The tears that had so diligently been held in for so long demanded escape, rolling down her flaming cheeks in hot, generous streaks._ It's too much. I can't accept this. Take it back. I don't deserve it._ The rejections couldn't quite form on her tongue. She ached to thrust the damning piece of parchment back into his grubby mitts, the knowledge that he wouldn't take it the only thing stopping her.

Trembling all over and at a loss for words, she hugged the deed close to her chest after reading it over for the umpteenth time and finding that the letters still hadn't rearranged themselves into something more logical. This was simply too much, more than she knew how to take. How would she ever be able to repay him? The man had given her the impossible, and all she had to offer was mundanity. _Anything,_ she once promised him unwisely, full of girlish admiration and gratitude. That I.O.U. was useless now. Chump change. _She would give him _**everything **_if he asked._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"I kinda had to _impersonate _you—and then _forge your signature…_.so, if the realty agent seems _real nice_ next time to see him it's because you wore a low cut shirt and kissed him on the cheek for cuttin' you a deal…." the ghoul continues babbling amid the silence, as if trying to fill the air, not quite looking at her in hopes he'd stave off any kind of rejection. This was a large emotional gamble on his behalf, and even though grand gestures should seem natural to Betelgeuse…they aren't from a place of love, usually.

"_You bought me a house….?"_

Betelgeuse hesitates. "Y…yeah, I bought…well, _you _bought you a house, but you did it with _my _money, and I was ….sort of _being you,_ so ….I…bought you a house. Yeah. I bought you a house."

He finally looks at her then, unable to keep awkward, shy worry off his face. He has sort of a hopeful, quirked half-smile, as if expecting something possibly good but also possibly horrible. He almost seems relieved when Lydia starts to cry, clutching the deed to her, and he tugs her against him gently. It serves to bring her even closer, those endlessly deep, enormous eyes of hers almost rendering him speechless for a moment – she was pretty when she cried in misery, but she was the picture of sweet heartache when she cried due to happiness. A large part of him wanted to make her happy like this always, if only to see her like this again.

"Honey…" he mutters, sympathetically at her warm tears, though how much he actually _felt _that way isn't clear – "…kitten, oh, Lyds… I just… you deserved something _good _for once, and…I was gonna wait, but between what happened yesterday n'…I just wanted you to be _happy."_ A grimy thumb pushes against Lydia's flawless cheek to wipe at her tears, and he only _barely _resists the urge to lick his fingers.

How could her parents treat her so negligently? Being so passive about her molestation, locking her up in a loony bin when she had, unsurprisingly, some emotional trouble later on? Chuck deserved being dumped off a staircase and so much more. He'd have to scheme on that later, because the bio-exorcist in him was suddenly aching to bio-exorcise two very delinquent Deetzes. Oh how they had clung to her to keep him from her that night he tried to claim her! _Lies. Performance! Appearances, nothing more!_ This girl _loved him,_ and what do you do for the ones that love you? That's right.

You kill their parents.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"I _am _happy," she wept, suddenly dropping the deed so that she could fling her arms around his neck, practically pouncing._ "Beej," _she whined insistently, squeezing just as tightly as she possibly could, "you bought me a _house!"_

And what a house it was, if the pictures were anything to go off of! She could only remember vague details, it had been so long since she'd seen them- _three spiraling, interconnected towers, beautiful stained glass windows._ All hers. That he would put his masculine pride and possessive nature aside to let hers be the only name on the deed was nothing short of insurmountable. The Maitlands, Mother, and all other troubles far from her ravaged mind, Lydia drew back so that she could meet him eye to eye and bury him in questions.

"Is it already furnished? How many bedrooms? Bathrooms? Is there a door big enough for Bubby to fit through? If there's not, can we install one? _Oh my God, Beej, you bought me a house!"_ She repeated blubberingly for a third time, as though he were an imbecile that just wasn't getting the message, and began excitedly peppering his face with sweet, wet kisses. Before he had a chance to get _too _excited, she was already out of the coffin and dashing toward his bathroom to rush through her morning routine.

"Beefjth?" She questioned minutes later, poking her head out of the room, toothbrush in mouth and hair thrown into a haphazard messy bun atop her head, "can you poofth-" Some white foam spit past her lips, dribbling down her chin, and she disappeared to spit into the sink and wipe her mouth before rushing back to finish her request, completely unabashed. "- the outfit here that Ginger made me? The spiderweb one? Thank you!"

Before waiting for an answer, she was back to readying herself. Evidently, Lydia wanted to see her house and she wanted to see it _now._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Of course, how much different was _his _relationship to her now, only eight years past Lydia's initial abuse? How, exactly, was he _any different_ than the dark figure from her childhood? Because he manipulated her into consent of some nature? Because he made her think that it was _she _that wanted this? It was hard to say, and Betelgeuse has always been a hypocritical figure. He never really thinks about things of that nature because he doesn't draw parallels easily between himself and others. On his merry way he will always continue, thinking the world of himself and denying any behavior that might even be deemed remotely _problematic._

And, he did _indeed _just buy her a house. To make her happy, because he loves her. Betelgeuse feels a kinship with Lydia that just seems _right _– but also _strange,_ like he's always known her and yet doesn't know her at all. It's like trying to remember a song you're _sure _you've heard before but you can't remember the words quite right.

In the moment, Betelgeuse is all too pleased to soak up her joy and attention, but there's a part of him that's startled by it too. And then the rush of questions that she peppers him with and his eyes go wide at her, his mouth quirked into a funny little amused grin. She smothers him in kisses and that's probably the part of this he likes the best – he grabs out at her uselessly as she slips through his fingers, though, to buzz awake and flit about his room through her little routine like a hummingbird.

"It's furnished for the most part, though I think it could probably use a little more _personality,_ the sea caves don't even have a kraken in 'em yet," he says, scratching his stubbly cheek, just watching after her from the coffin in pleased bewilderment, "I ….kinda lied at _least _once about going to the Patel's. It's been keepin' me busy…."

At the mention of Bubby, he lamely attempts to argue, "Bubb— _Beezlebub _is a security feature, Lyds, he's supposed to stay prowlin' the perimeter. Can't have the neighbors peepin' on my hot wife—," he suspects Lydia _might _be glaring at him but he isn't quite sure if she is and adds quickly, "Yeah, door's big enough. I'm _not sleepin' with him in the bed._ I'll wind up gargling his doggy marbles somehow when I'm tryin' ta grope ya in the dark."

Instead of poofing the cobweb dress Ginger made her as requested, Betelgeuse grunted from within the coffin still and snapped his fingers. No cobweb dress appeared – what was laid out in its place was her _wedding gown._ She doesn't get to call _all _the shots, after all. Eventually, he can find no more excuses for lounging inside his cozy bed.

"I think we oughtta walk the property first though, Lyds," he suggests, shaking himself into new clothes with a quick motion, his 'Guide' outfit of all things, "The woods might have werewolves or somethin' if we're lucky."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"What _neighbors?!"_ Lydia cackled almost madly from the bathroom. Still buzzed on dopamine, she emerged; teeth and hair brushed to perfection, face washed clean of any salt tracks. "There's no one around for _at least_ three-hundred acres because_ I own it- Jesus, Beej."_ How long would it be until she stopped feeling this way? Never, hopefully. "There's _caves? Krakens? Werewo-"_

Breath catching in her throat, her delightful line of questioning ceased once she sighted the familiar crimson beach dress laid out in his coffin, blending in almost too well with its velvet background. It had cost her five dollars at Goodwill, was at least three sizes too large for her, and had only been worn once- on her wedding night, round two. Lydia, romantic and sentimental as she was, found it _more _than fitting that she should wear it upon their return to the would-be honeymoon site, had Betelgeuse gotten his way. She didn't comment on his appropriate choice. Instead, she very gently gathered the cheap thing into her arms and cast him a shy, sweet, blushing smile before retreating to dress away from his eyes, adequately silenced of all her excitable prattling.

"I like that hat," was the first thing she said upon donning the gown and revealing herself to him, appearance checked over and polished of imperfections to the best of her ability. She wished she could sit at her vanity and pretty herself further for him, but this was all she had to offer at the time being. It would have to do. This wasn't the first time she'd complimented his hat, either, but repetition wasn't always a bad thing. Going with the theme of the day, she took his hand, radiating joy and love, and echoed the exact same phrase that was spoken the last time she wore her wedding gown.

"_I'm ready."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse was fascinated with her giddiness, admittedly. This is as light as he'd ever seen her – she was _laughing…cackling _even. He never expected her to be as delighted as he when it came to the sincere lack of neighbors. Being excited by monstrosities prowling the woods….he wasn't surprised to find her excited about_ that._

"Your own slice of paradisio, kitten," he returns, watching her with intensity as the dress interrupts all her exclamations. As she silently gathers it up and gave him such a _shy _and _sweet _look at his choice, altogether _agreeable _before disappearing off to change like he hadn't ever seen her nude, it raises a low, gravelly _pleased _noise to his throat.

She emerges soon enough again, and compliments his hat, which she has indeed done before. As it happens, he also likes this hat and is pleased with her continued enjoyment of it – he vaguely remembers that it may have been the first thing she _ever _complimented him on. He has fond memories associated with it – it was the theatrical piece he chose when he first encountered the Maitlands, which of course led him to the beautiful figure draped in red before him.

"I like you in just about anything, includin' nothin' at all," he remarks, "But, I couldn't resist." He hardly has to indicate that he means her dress, of course.

He's had this scheme…plan….fantasy, what have you, in his mind for a long time. This visit to her land, this would be the final date as he promised, though he would have gone on many more if only it made her happy. Though, pushing back a formal consummation was admittedly becoming _increasingly difficult._ She wanted it just as much as he did, by now, but Betelgeuse had put her off. As she takes his hand, practically aglow, he knows all of what she means when she says,

"_I'm ready."_

He leads her to the bedroom door, her slight and graceful hand nearly disappearing into his much larger mitt. Upon opening it and stepping out, the two of them are suddenly surrounded by foggy, tangled forest that disappears into what seems like an endless sea of leaves. The light here is liminal and dispersed, and even though there are winding pathways through the crooked trees it's difficult to see down any one way after a number of feet.

Peculiar trilling noises from things that almost sound like they might be birds echo overhead and in places unseen, here. There are other noises, too. They are certainly not alone, this ancient wood seems to be quite alive with the local fauna.

"I think the house is…." he gestures, vaguely, "That way?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"You don't _know?"_ She broke into bell-like tittering once more, looking at him like this was just too much. "You're a terrible guide," she teased, but took off in the direction he pointed anyway. "And I'm not giving you a tip- I know, I know._ I already gave y'the tip, babes, wasn't it generous? Ha. Ha. Ha."_ Lydia did a terrible Betelgeuse impression.

Silence soon fell over them. Fearless, yet in awe of the beauty and power all around her, she strolled forward into the labyrinthine forest, unable to grasp how anyone could possibly own something so wild. Betelgeuse's heavy footsteps fell just behind hers, a nudge here and a grunt there telling her where she needed to go, fulfilling his _guide _responsibilities.

A large shadow swept through a brush of foliage a distance aways from the serpentine path they were taking and Lydia gasped, grabbing at her husband's hand. How she longed to run out and explore, chase down the long gone shadow and see if it wanted to be friends. It wasn't clear if the vice-like grip on Betelgeuse's hand was meant to keep her tethered to the spot or to take him with her on the spontaneous adventure.

No matter. She didn't release her hold on him after that, much preferring to let him take the lead. Lush grass grew dry and brittle beneath her bare feet, dead branches, rocks, and gnarled upturned roots hindering the ease of her walk. Clearly, she started lagging behind just a bit _too much_ for Betelgeuse's tastes. He stopped abruptly, grumbling inaudibly, turned around to angle an eyebrow down at her, and then smirked something _awful_, licking his lips the way he did when he'd just gotten a delicious idea. With that, he knelt down in the dirt, grabbing hold of her and _rummaging _and _arranging _until she was facing the other way, skirt hiked up, head jutting between her knees.

"_Beej!_ What are you–!" Just as suddenly, he stood, thrusting her bodily into the air. She _eeked,_ clinging her thighs and arms tight around his enormous head in reflex to keep from falling, only releasing him once her equilibrium could be trusted again. His shoulders were broad and it was easy to settle on them comfortably. The wiry mass of his hair pressed into her stomach and tickled at the bottom of her decolletage. Her naked crotch brushed the back of his neck with each step, but he hadn't said anything vile yet, so Lydia would reserve her embarrassment.

"It's so _beautiful _here," she praised her land finally in an aching voice, despising that she didn't have words eloquent enough, worthy enough for this shadowy landscape. Lydia didn't have her own, so she borrowed Robert Frost's._ "The woods are lovely, dark and deep,"_ she sing-songed, kicking her legs lightly, playing with his hair as he strode on at a brisker, faster pace than she ever could have managed.

"_But I have promises to keep,  
__and miles to go before I sleep,  
__and miles to go before I sleep."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Of course I _know,"_ scoffed Lydia's dead companion, "It's just that all these woods look the same when y'first get in 'em, that's all."

His defense isn't very good and he knows it, but her following impression of him _is very good_ – as in, not good at all, and so he laughs. "Babes, we're gonna have to work on that impression. See, this is what _you _sound like."

He promptly imitates her perfectly, but says things she absolutely would not. "Ohhh, Betelgeuse, all this wood has me horny, _take me against that tree._ No, that one. Oooh maybe that one. _And more than just the tip this time you bastard!"_ He drops it after a moment, looking around as she leads them both into the unknown. "Seriously babes, I think this is some of the deepest Neitherworld woods I've ever been in. And I've been in _deep _in a couple places." He _snrks._

They walk together, and he does indeed alter her course one way and then another in his own unique way. Occasionally the noises of mysterious animals called out from around them. The large shadow of something that escapes among the leaves ahead of them doesn't startle the ghost, but it leaves his hand firmly grasped in Lydia's and he certainly can't complain about _that._

She immediately lollygags, though, and as the thicket gets dense she's left in bare feet – trying to navigate the tangle in a dress hardly suited for such activities. It takes him a good minute but once he realizes her trouble past his irritation, he fixes it as only he knows how: by climbing under the hem of her dress like an animal and giving her a good startle of surprise. He notes, idly, that his blushing bride isn't wearing much under there as he takes off his hat and rucks up her skirt around his face. He resists the immediate impulse to take advantage. Barely.

He likes the noise she makes when he lifts her, that's for certain. He makes a note to be less predictable more often because she's adorable when she's taken unaware – not that he really has to try too hard, being _unpredictable _is within the core of his very nature. She wraps his face up in her warm arms and legs like a little mummy, until he has to remind her that, despite being dead, he still needs to see in order to take her anywhere. There's no denying he likes it though, especially as she settles in after that and the warm heat and soft flesh of her sex settles against his mossy nape, brushing him when he moved. That's _real nice._ His broad hands slide up her smooth sexy legs to sit atop her thighs for stabilization, and he briefly peers up at her to ensure she's secure with that shock of hair probably only tickling her further. He grins once he does - mostly all he sees are her breasts. Those look good, so he ambles off with her, replacing his hat jauntily before returning his hands to her legs. As she sing-songs, he listens happily, and adds lines which he's sort of halfway made-up,

"_My little ghost must think it queer,  
__To stop without a lighthouse near,  
__Between the woods and tarry sea,  
__Which he has gifted here to me." _

He moves quickly through the terrain, indeed. Sometimes he doesn't even step at all – his feet occasionally leave the ground to drift across deep ravines or the gutters of strangely colored creeks, through what seems to be so many winding pathways through the woods. They catch glimpses of things – shadows, hair, sometimes claws or the glimmer of teeth. The flora take on strange shapes and there are eyes that peer from within the trees, or even from within the bark itself. They seem to be headed upwards, now, seemingly moving along a steep embankment. The trees thin. Up they go, until they hit a large cliff-side jutting up like an impenetrable rock wall that seems to impede them. It stretches far above and far across, but this seems to be some sort of peak as nothing seems to push beyond its top.

Betelgeuse lights a cigarette at this juncture, and reluctantly works Lydia from his shoulders onto his back like a little red satchel. His arms hook into her legs to secure her, and he takes a few steps back as if winding up. "Hang on tight, babes. This elevator's goin' up."

Once she does, with a hop, skip and a jump they leave the ground entirely. This was much more than levitating, or gliding, this was _flying _– and the two of them ascend to the top of the cliff-side in what could have only been a moment or two, the wind rushing against them. He overshoots, of course, and winds up taking her a number of feet over the top of the peak. For a moment, he hangs there and takes a casual drag on his cigarette, the entirety of the place spreading out below them.

The tangle of forests beneath them stretch out to ominous looking far away mountains on every side, the branches of the tops of the trees peeking from a thick blanket of fog that always seems to hang low within them. Off to the north, the thicket clears into bristly wind-swept grasses that slope down towards the sandy blackened edge of Tar Beach. The beach itself seems almost endless, but far off on one end it sweeps down into a craggy cove, which then rises into many dangerous looking sea cliffs. The beach itself curves far underneath the lighthouse, which itself stands off on a cliff's edge somewhere midway along the sand proudly. Past the sea cliffs there are many dunes, and a long swath of some sort of desert banding the forest – but it's difficult to see in the distance.

Betelgeuse eventually slowly drifts into ascending from mid-air, gently landing them on the top of the rocky peak. A skeletal pterodactyl looking bird with too many eyes and some sort of tentacle-like appendages emerging from a beak that opens in three different directions sweeps past them both with an indignant _HWAAORK!_ and flies away. The view from here isn't as revealing as just a few feet above, but the vastness of Lydia's domain can be seen from all angles nonetheless. He eases Lydia off his back onto the mossy, rocky outcrop.

"Simba," Mufasa's voice comes out of nowhere as Betelgeuse suddenly puts a heavy hand on the poor girl's shoulder. "Everything the light touches is our kingdom…"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Fairytales _were _real. So what if the bad guy won every once in a while? Most villains were misunderstood.

Lydia had never seen or heard of such a place in fictitious media, nor conceptualized one in her wild, off-kilter dreams. A trifecta of different terrains melted out from the lighthouse, which she could see clearly in the distance. Each tower shed a brilliant multicolored light over its respective territory; desert, sea, and wood. Likewise, three moons lit up the sky, all different sizes, and colors, casting gold and silver rays down on the vast region. Clinging to him with everything she had, she looked over her land with too full a heart, ready to burst into tears all over again in sheer wonder of its majesty.

As soon as she was given liberty to walk again, she made her way to the highest point she could. The crimson train of her gown draped easily over rocks as she climbed, but catching just enough to bare a good length of her legs throughout the endeavor. Once she was up high again, thin, pale arms flung out to embrace the incoming gale. There _was _wind to be found in the Neitherworld, evidently, you just had to know where to look. This wasn't flying, but it was as close as Lydia could achieve on her own. Red fabric afloat with the current and black jets of hair caught on the zephyr's tail, she felt she might drift away on a cloud of joy at any moment.

_When would the ball drop? When would reality come to encroach upon this fantasy world he had built around her?_

A big, glorious smile was already pulling at her lips, but his Lion King trick just made it all the wider. Turning at the touch of his hand, Lydia pulled him down for a kiss, needing to do something with all her electric energy. It was short, but passionate, and said everything she didn't quite have the capacity to speak aloud. _Thank you. I love you. Please take me, I'm yours._ Neither of them would have or wanted to break the hungry embrace, nevertheless, her stomach had other plans. Ferociously, it growled, reminding the both of them that she hadn't eaten since the dramatic, interrupted dinner the night prior.

"_Sorry,"_ she flushed as he pulled away, suddenly aware that she hadn't thought to snack on something before they left. "Is the kitchen already stocked? I can cook something if we go now. Ginger showed me some of her recipes. I'm still getting the hang of it, but think if I experimented for a while I could get used to using Neitherworld ingredients."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse was definitely misunderstood. The Maitlands had thoroughly misread his intentions when the solicited him for work – though, not the Barb thing. He would have cuckolded Adam in a heartbeat upon being freed if he had even faltered for a moment. He'd already attempted every single format of auto-fellacio he could have before finding them as his next marks. His appetite was so legendary that even Juno knew the possibility of his _proclivities _once he laid his serpentine eyes on Lydia for the first time – the cathouse distraction was _no accident._ Fortunately for them all, he'd slake himself on any willing female party, even a separated pair of legs in a waiting room…if they hadn't come along with a very perturbed torso.

But it certainly wasn't _his _fault that the Maitlands misunderstood the contract they entered into by even summoning him. Here he was, doing his job, and they just kept _changing their minds._ He had sworn them off entirely after the snake fiasco – but had stuck around to see how _magnificently badly_ things would subsequently go for them…and he'd stuck around for Lydia. As much as they wanted her for a daughter, he wanted her _more _as a wife.

And so, as his industrious new wife scrambled up a very large boulder that she navigates even with a train to get to the highest point she could, it seems as though for once he's crawled through enough mud and played enough correct cards to claim his prize. She holds her arms out to the wind and her hair, and the red train take aloft, fluttering out behind her in a way that leaves him quite still. _Take that and stick it in your eye, Babs._

He eventually floats up there himself to join her at the highest point of the peak when he delivers the Lion King line, and is surprised when he's swept up in a kiss. It says more than words, and there on top of the boulder with the Neitherworld stretching out beneath them and the moons hanging behind them, he kisses her fiercely. Nobody loves quite like a monster, and he's the biggest one he knows.

He laughs mildly as her hunger interrupts them both – and he makes a peculiar, scrunched kind of face. "No no no, nah," he puts her off of the idea immediately, waggling his finger, "As much as I love yer cookin', Lyds, and I do, I'm actually gonna need you to ah…save yer strength."

He says the last with a greedy little squint of the dark pits surrounding his eyes, a glint of intent flashing there. Instead, he sweeps an arm below them to the flatter part of the peak where they stood previously. Atop the mossy outcrop was now a happy picnic blanket, basket and an arrangement of soda, wine and water. "Packed for the occasion though," he explains casually, helping her down off the boulder, "You should eat as much as y'can."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"We were only walking for _maybe _half an hour before you started carrying me," Lydia defended, oblivious to his intent. She relished the chance to use her legs after he swept her down easily from the boulder it had been a chore to climb. The opportunity to walk was short-lived, she was soon settling down on the unassumingly soft blanket to explore the conjured picnic goodies. "I have plenty of energy- _oh! Rootbeer!_ Thank you, Beej!"

Parched, she first gulped down several stinging mouthfuls of ice cold rootbeer first before wrenching open a similarly frigid bottle of water and draining it half empty. The basket held a loaf of hearty whole wheat bread, all different kinds of fresh deli meats, cheeses, condiments, and garnishes. There was a variety of fruit, chips, even several candy bars. She didn't realize how hungry she was until seeing all this food packed so neatly, appetizingly. Excited at having such a vast selection to work with, Lydia immediately set to work building her own dream sandwich.

"Do you want one?" She offered, only for him to wave her off, a cigarette balanced between his claws. _His loss._ This food was delicious, and Lydia made a mean sandwich. After devouring some roast beef and provolone, half an apple, a handful of cherries, and an entire Snickers bar, she flopped back on the blanket, stuffed.

"Today," she began, gazing dreamily up at the cloudless lilac sky, "has been _the best_ day of my life." Motioning idly, she was able to get him to pass her his cigarette. She attempted smoke rings, but they came out sloppy and disjointed, unlikes his perfect O's. "I don't know how I'm going to go back to my world now… school… chores… Dad and Delia, Adam and Barb… It all seems so _small."_

Turning to lay her weight on her hip, head resting in hand, she eyed him from the tip of his muddy boots to the ends of his wiry hair, topped off with that increasingly sexy hat. "I still don't understand why you wanted out. I _have _to go back. You could stay here doing whatever you wanted forever… is it because you're mad at everyone?" Frowning, she passed back his cigarette, brushing his stubble as she went.

"I wish you weren't so angry, Beej. It's not good for you, and you have a lot to offer the world. Both worlds." _My world._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"That's important," he remarks on her energy levels, "You're gonna need all of it…." she may not infer his meaning, of course, but it hardly matters to him. Betelgeuse settles into a lounging lean against a rock that abuts the edge of the blanket and watches Lydia. "That's Outerworld root-beer. Ours comes with real roots," he mutters, vaguely, "Ones that try n' choke ya before ya drink it."

As she puts together a pretty little sandwich, his eyes rove over her slowly, and he picks at his nails. When he's not doing that, he horks, spits, and takes a deep drag on his cigarette. His eyes don't leave her, of course – the landscape hardly distracted him from Lydia. In fact, not much did, and as she finally eats her fill and flops back on the blanket, he edges closer, settling down next to her on the blanket itself in an upright seated position, his ankles crossed.

Cigarette is shared easily between them, and he smiles as her wobbly Os drift into the air. "Good," he says in a half-laugh after she surprisingly mentions this being the best day of her life. "'Cause yesterday _sucked _Lyds. Except after I dragged y'off. That part was okay." At her next, he doesn't know what to tell her about her return. He doesn't _want _to let her go again, admittedly. "Your mirror links to the lighthouse, can't remember if I mentioned it. You can come n' go as you please. Everyone else though, they need an invite. Can't come here without your _express permission._ But, hey, we could just stay here forever. I have no issues with that, babes." He holds his hands up, smiling mischievously, "The afterlife _is _a pretty big deal. Kinda goes on _forever,_ so."

He settles on his back, then, next to her, one of his arms behind his head. He looks at her askance as she questions him, and he suddenly laughs, the noise eventually muffled out as she gently puts the cigarette to his lips. He leans in, nuzzling at her hand briefly as it brushes his stubble.

"I never understood why you wanted _in,"_ he mumbles as he traps the end with his lips, before shifting the stick into his fingers briefly. "I mean, look, my afterlife is lookin' waaaay up, 'cause I'm King Shit now, but before I met you? Being dead…y'lose _everything._ And then everywhere ya go, everybody wants t'screw you over with red tape. Bend you riiiiight over, and _fuck you right up the ass._ And not in the fun way, either. You'd be trapped in the house with the Maitlands for two hundred years, y'know, if you'd successfully offed yourself an' you never met me. You may like those squares right now, but after about a hundred n' fifty years you'd be throwin' yourselves to the sandworms to try n' get away from each other. Then, blissfully, your two hundred years is up. Oh! You get to work in an _office _for _eternity!_ You don't get t'leave, and your boss is a harpy bitch who—-one of these days, I'll let you meet Juno," smoke steams from his nostrils. "She _cut her own throat_ in order to ggghnnnnrgh." His hand cuts across his throat in a 'death' gesture. "Point bein' – your ghost-dad's model was the first place I'd been released from in oh….maybe twenty, thirty years. I couldn't go anywhere unless someone said my name. And that in itself took a lotta work, lemme tell ya," he wipes his nose on his sleeve with a wet noise and mutters, "Now I get to stick around doin' whatever I want forever, that's true. But now all I want is to be around you. Don't care where."

At her last, he seems to quiet – but his soon face splits wide in a grin and he laughs. He laughs, and laughs, and grabs Lydia's soft cheek, and gives her a big, wet, genuinely affectionate kiss on it. He entirely ignores her heartfelt worry for him, it seems, but the sentiment is clearly appreciated. "Babes, I've been tellin' that to everyone that'll listen…I'm a _professional,_ see…I have _lots _to offer, and you're the first person, livin' or dead to ever agree with me!" And then he laughs all the harder, until he's breathless, _thrilled._

Eventually, he theatrically wipes the tears that were never there from his eyes, and sniffles at her, recovering from his hysterical bout. "Well," he says, his mood cheered back into some of the manic glee he was accustomed to showing, "Wanna go see your castle?"


	14. The Consummation

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_"Yes,"_ she breathed, grinning a silly little smile at his ridiculous question, and closed the distance between them to cling around his neck, inclined to let him keep carrying her despite her disagreeable griping earlier. There would be no reaching the distant cliff without flying some more, anyway. "You _know _I do."

Lydia couldn't see herself ever tiring of Mr. or Mrs. Maitland's company, but that tune could easily change after a century or so's worth of cabin fever began to set in. It didn't sting that he would so arrogantly, so patronizingly laugh off her concern. Maybe it might have if he hadn't balmed the sound of his obnoxious cackles with that sweet, gruff kiss. As it was, there wasn't a lot the man could do to earn her ire at the moment. She was his, completely. From the first instant she was made aware of his interest, maybe even before then, she had been lost to him. "I'm yours," she'd husked to him more than once- _the empty promise of a lovesick teenager, or the wisdom of someone who recognized and had embraced their fate?_ Did it even matter anymore?

As effortlessly as always, he gathered her into his arms and stood, positioning her in much the same manner he had the previous night; legs dangling over his crooked elbow, snaking hands securing her in inappropriate places. As usual, Lydia let him, snuggling into the touches even, pulling herself tighter in preparation for take off. With that, they were soaring, much faster than before, the ground blurring beneath her. Undaunted, she leaned far over his arms to watch, trusting with everything she had that he wouldn't let her fall. The twisted, dead trees turned into sand, then craggy rocks. A sharp turn took them up, whooshing her hair around them, and before she knew it they were landing very gently before her "castle."

It was breathtaking to look at and appeared quite large from the outside, but could hardly classify as a palace. The front double doors were certainly large enough for Bubby to squeeze through; tall, intimidating things with fractured spiderwebs blown beautifully into the stained glass windows. The lawn was lush with electric blue grass that looked like it would feel soft and cool beneath her feet. Smooth marble stepping stones dappled a pathway to the front door. A quaint, crooked black iron gate surrounded the entire lighthouse from front to back. There was _definitely _a backyard with things in it from what Lydia could see at her awkward angle tucked firmly against her husband's chest.

"Let me down," she squirmed, wriggling with excitement, the urge to explore and touch and scrutinize everything nearly overwhelming, "I want to go see!"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The ghost busies himself as they catch a small jetstream and are pushed along easily towards the grand building on the cliff's edge. Lydia was easy to molest like this, and so he does so, just a little as they travel because he can't be expected to control his urges and he's unable to resist the opportunity. As they settle in front of the lighthouse, though, he's absolutely feeling that rush of flushed anxiety, and it's only made worse by Lydia's immediate squirming to get down. He gingerly puts her onto the stepping stone walkway that leads to the large three-towered lighthouse and rolls his shoulders with a breathy, slow huff.

Up the path they go, and he sticks his hands in his coat pockets as he watches his wife explore the soft blue grass curiously. It is indeed cool on her feet and pleasant to walk on, soft on the bottoms of her soles. Betelgeuse is peculiarly quiet, his attention primarily surrounding Lydia for now, especially as her pretty little pale toes push through the grass. They eventually they reach the gate and he presses open the black cast iron lock with a click. With a low creak, it swings open and he holds the gate open for her – and as she passes he slips out a hand to squeeze at her butt, goosing her firmly, a playfully evil grin on his face. He snaps his fingers and the massive front doors open with a metallic, slow groan. Before she can rush them, though, he snags her with a strong arm, bodily lifting her right back into his arms.

"Not so fast, kitten—first thing's first," he grins down at her, those dark eyes glittering, his filthy teeth exposed by those lips of his. He carries her, then, the final steps into the cavernous front door, the sound of his boots against the slate floor echoing as he lifts her through the threshold. He kisses Lydia then, standing just inside the doorway, long and passionate and deep, drinking of her needfully. The house seems to respond to their presence and torches begin to alight all along the stone-faced walls, up the stairs, illuminating the grand interior space of the main tower. Under the glow of the light, that kiss turns suddenly hungry…so very, very hungry indeed, slimy tongue pushing intrusively into her mouth, a clawed hand, the arm of which supports her upper back, curls into Lydia's wash of long black hair and forms into a greedy fist. She tastes too good to resist, it seems, and she's done nothing but capture his attention since before they left the Roadhouse.

He only pulls back long enough to shudder breathily out against her lips, "Nnh, you have no idea what I've wanted to do to you all day Lyds. All you've done today is look so bright n' happy n' _fuckin' sexy,_ I just can't help myself…."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

It wasn't until he was kissing her that she realized what he had just done, _carrying her through the threshold like that._ He was so _strong _and he moved her about so effortlessly, she knew from extensive experience. It was better to melt under his touch than fight him; to open up, _give_, and let him _take, take, take_. She became pliant for him, trailing the pads of her fingers gently across his cheekbones and into the hair around his ears even as he stretched her jaw wider with his ferocity.

"I have a bit of an idea," Lydia hushed against his warmed lips once she was permitted to breathe again, attention focused solely on her husband despite the burning urge to jump from his arms and explore. A deeper hunger needed to be addressed first.

"You _make _me happy. I want you _too,_ Beej," she insisted, breaking her speech to kiss him once more- short but heated, and ending with a more practiced bite to his bottom lip than her first. Eyelashes fluttering, she nuzzled his nose with hers, grasping his cheeks in her tiny hands as he drew her in closer. He had yet to relinquish her from his arms since grabbing her up and toting her through the entryway.

"I'm just not as good at saying it as you are." The embarrassed admission came with a sweet, blushing smile and another kiss that might have been considered a peck if her tongue wasn't involved. Of the two of them, there was no question who had the more talented tongue, though Lydia's was not without its merits. "Are you done stringing me along, Romeo?" She teased with all of the love and affection she harbored, unable to resist, and then smooched the end of his nose. "Are you going to _deflower _me now? Rose petals and silk sheets and all that jazz?"

Taunting like that was sure to earn her a nasty bite or two. Lydia hoped so. Currently, she only sported the one on her neck he had left the previous night. Other than that, she was bereft of any marks of his affection. Luckily, this was an extremely fixable complication that Betelgeuse would assuredly see to with swiftness.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse was good at taking. He was good at taking even when things were not even remotely offered up as a possibility. But to give into him, to have Lydia ease into his touch and permit him to take thorough advantage of her was like some sort of divine, addicting fruit. Fighting his lust was indeed often like fighting a many-tentacled monster and sometimes it was simply easier to let him attach his suckers and have his way – but it was clear that in this particular instance, Lydia was quite willing altogether.

The sensation of her soft fingers against his skin was not lost on him, and as she captures him into another kiss that ends with a bite to his lower lip, pulling from him a distinctly throaty, gravelly noise. She nuzzles at his face so sweetly then, and he pushes it into her delicate hands, hunched over her, clutching her to him like someone might try to take her from him at any moment.

"I disagree, Lyds," the ghost mutters into Lydia's ear breathily at the notion she doesn't know how to say as much as he, "You don't gotta use words…y'have a… _very distinct_ body language. Makes me _hot as hell."_ It's true, too, and she seems to show it as she pushes Betelgeuse into another kiss, their tongues explorative and eager. He was indeed talented, but her shy, sweet probing, the simple, earnest way she went about things…her innocence and her curiosity, those things all added up to a girl that he simply couldn't resist. And she wanted him.

As she teases him once they separate, he begins to carry her onwards towards the stairs as if in subtle answer. More obviously, though, he grimaces a mean smile – indeed giving her a swift, sucking bite as he begins to ascend the main tower stairs. "M'gonna deflower you all right, _Juliet._ I'm gonna deflower you until you're a shaking mess in every room of this place." His boots stomp weightily as he carries her, rapidly, up the winding staircase. Betelgeuse continues, "There's silk sheets, and rose petals, n' all that but you're not gonna notice 'em for long…you're gonna be real _preoccupied _in a few minutes 'cause I'm gonna put you on your knees and make you real familiar with _every inch_ of my cock. It's been lookin' to get _acquainted _for a long time, you little teasing viper."

He could simply float them both, but the physicality of hauling her is far more theatrical. His voice is hardly intoned with anger, it is instead intoned with dark promise. He has a long while to threaten her, the stairs seem to go on for quite some time. He threatens her with vile things, how long it is, exactly, that he might hold her here in her beautiful house taking advantage of her body, and how long it might take him to slake his lust. "I told ya to save your energy for a reason, my own, sweet little _Dante's initiate."_ They finally reach the top landing, and he gently lets her down from his arms.

This kindness, of course, is only momentary – he follows up with a playful, rough push to her back to encourage her away from him a few feet and into the room. The room itself is like something very much out of a fairy tale and it is the true piece de resistance of the place. It is the top of the lighthouse where the light would normally sit if it were still functioning as one. Instead, this is a vast, circular bedroom, with part of it restructured into a covert bathroom towards one end. The huge sweeping windows offer a complete, perfect view from all sides, looking out across every part of her land far off into the distance, completely uninterrupted. The liminal sun and moons hang low in the sky, and the colors reflect some sort of strange, dim sunset with oranges and purples.

The bed is, of course, also circular and very large – it's a custom looking piece with white demon-sphinx like creatures flanking the posts. Their willowy arms gesture towards the bed in permanent display, as if in offering. The sheets are indeed silk, and a deep, rich red color. Across the top are indeed scattered purple rose petals, a swath of them lead a path towards the mattress. Lamps in the shape of prowling bat-winged dragons sit on the bedside tables, which have an assortment of items on them. Cigarettes, cigars, blunts, champagne, beer, and some other things that the ghoul deemed should be within easy reach. There's a portion of the floor that seems to be where a flat-screen might pull up, as well.

He gives her a blissful moment or two to soak it in, looking ghoulishly pleased with himself, before remarking, "Ain't nothin' compared to you, though, baby. Now _strip."_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia had been nude in front of him more times than she could count. Fuck, her pussy had spent the better part of the morning kissing his neck. However, the way he demanded it of her after threatening her so viciously, chucking her into this gilded arboretum, stocked and furnished to _her _tastes for the sole purpose of _fucking her-_ well… a little nervousness couldn't be helped.

Betelgeuse had planned this for a while. Gone to extreme lengths to keep her in the dark so that he could surprise her at the right moment, give her the romance and time she told him she needed. It conveyed a well of patience she didn't think flowed within him. _He loved her._ No doubt about it. The least she could do was try to live up to his no doubt _high _expectations. Regardless, she wasn't about to let the man run all over her.

"I am not a _tease,"_ she argued uselessly, shoulders hunched, flushing deeply with color as the flimsy strap of her cheap wedding gown eased over the slope of one shoulder, then the other. Self-conscious, suddenly aware that many lunar rays were illuminating her from every angle, she hesitated in pulling the straps down all the way past her breasts, bit her lip, and tucked a stray tuft of hair behind her ear.

"You didn't _have _to get me all this stuff, or do any of these things," she imparted gently in her own defense, shyly tugging the top of her dress down until it was hanging off of her hips. As though he'd never touched them before, unblemished snowy mounds were bathed in moonlight, their icy pink tips barely discernible from the rest of the intact flesh.

"_I would have let you fuck me behind that dumpster,"_ she mumbled, eyes downcast, unable to make contact with his as she shimmied the last of her coverings away. Crimson fabric hit the carpeted floor with nary a whisper. Bare as the day she was born, she stood equidistant between her husband and the low set altar that was to be the site of their consummation. Timid in the wake of his promises, she felt like that precious trembling girl in his car again, ready to creep out of her own skin. He was silent for long enough to rattle her already fragile nerves further. Thighs clenched, arm bent beneath her breasts to grasp the opposite elbow- _not hiding anything, but hiding nonetheless._

Remembering herself, she adjusted in an attempt at bravery, crossing her arms behind her back and grabbing her wrists instead. It didn't help. She still felt so awkward and dumb. Even here in this perfect utopian bedroom, with this wonderful impossible man who loved her. Deep down inside, she still felt like she didn't belong, and that it was time for her to go home and be lonely again.

"Beej," she begged after an eternity of quiet, the remote echo of the monsters that lurked her lands the only sounds to be heard, and maybe her own racing heartbeat. _"Say something._"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

For his part, Betelgeuse primarily remained lounging at the stairs, hanging lazily over the small cast iron railing that graced its top. He listens, vaguely, to Lydia complain and fret, and slowly, he places his stubbled chin in the palm of his hand, looking _very amused_ at her as she continues on.

Mostly, he's preoccupied with her slowly taking that red wedding dress off, revealing more and more of that flawless, youthful, pale skin of hers. Her frame is slim, but womanly in all the right places, soft places where padding has given her an incredibly sexy shape. She's being hesitant about it, too, and very obviously shy, and it draws a rather wet grunt from his throat as his hand slides down slowly to grope at the front of his fly, that amused expression changing. He lounges like that, almost fully out of the stairwell but not quite, in his ill-fitting and stained maroonish red vest that his filthy white undershirt and gut pokes out the bottom of, looking at her in a way that's positively _gross._

Lydia shied, then, curling in on herself. She was so beautifully nervous, as if she hadn't met him. He waits, those dark eyes glittering, and she shifts – discomforted, trying to be brave and keep up that strong front - exposing her breasts to him so prettily. She was, despite anything she may have thought, as pure as the driven snow to Betelgeuse and he was going to _utterly ruin her_ in every filthy way he could possibly imagine. Finally, Lydia begs him to speak to her, and that's when he moves. He moves in a way that is sinuous and predatory, singularly focused. He chuckles.

"That's a good girl, Lyds….I've listed to ya all the times I coulda fucked ya," Betelgeuse mutters slowly, voice smooth, walking up to her, nearly pressing against her – but stopping just before and _looming._ He only places his large, grubby hands on her petite shoulders at first, reverently, and they slowly glide down her smooth arms as he speaks. "But here…in this place…nobody's gonna stop me. No Donny, no losers, no step-mom and daddums. No sandworms, no roommates. 'S just _you an' me_ baby. An' nobody for miiiiiiles around."

Betelgeuse leans in, then, to slowly and searingly kiss his filthy mouth down her slender, graceful neck. Her skin felt electric, and she smelled _so perfectly_ sweet and nervous. "It's important that nobody stops me…because I'm not gonna wanna stop…" his palms move from her arms across to her chest, dragging his claws lightly along the peaks of her perfect, blushing nipples. He's taking his time and letting the heat build, but she can probably feel that all of him is tense, strained, barely controlled. He's wound up like a spring, and by the time his hands reach her hips and the velvety soft mounds of her ass he finally growls, suddenly grabbing her roughly there. He pulls her nudity against him firmly by that anchor, and he rolls his hips against Lydia with a sickeningly lewd hiss. He smiles, then, tongue poking out between his teeth. Betelgeuse relinquishes his grip with one hand, pulling Lydia's up in his and placing it on his pants zipper, where he's straining desperately for release. His voice is breathy, and tremulous, almost pleading.

"C'mon…do it for us both…"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Taken with tremors, but obedient to a fault, she followed his direction and unzipped his fly. Immediately, without needing to be fished out, his cock jutted out into her hand and against her belly, smearing a thick, sticky layer of precum in its path._ "Beej,"_ she whined, crooked teeth digging into her neck and ragged talons biting into her backside. As soon as she took hold of him properly, he was back to fondling her ass without care, massaging and kneading the tender tissue there with rough abandon. She stroked him light and easily, almost as if in some fruitless attempt to calm his fervor. Instead, the solid mass of flesh only seemed to lenghten and thicken under her gentle palm, weeping for her.

"You'll have to stop eventually," she reasoned into his neck with half-hearted conviction, only a tad concerned for her mortality. The flimsy assertion was followed by a series of soft, panting kisses to his stubbly neck and the underside of his jawline as she rubbed him wet with his own secretions. Up and down, her slight grip worked him until the heavy, hot weight in her hand was slippery with evidence of his arousal. His obvious pleasure made her brave, as it always did, and when her knees stopped shaking so very badly, Lydia sought to open her mouth and give voice to her nervous energy.

"I love my house," she whispered into his moldling mottled flesh, full of genuine love and gratitude though she'd really only gotten a peek at his latest infeasible gift to her. While breathing her thanks into his Adam's apple, she hugged him close with one arm, gripping along his cock with the other. The shy compliment to her castle suddenly seemed inadequate, however, and so she repeated the phrase she'd uttered in a drunken, euphoric fit the previous night in hopes to better satisfy. "I love _you."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

A low, feverish noise purrs from Betelgeuse's throat as Lydia unzips his fly and frees him. Her initial nervousness, her pale trembling…all that nervous energy was like ambrosia to the more predatory aspects of his nature. She was just so _deliciously sweet_ \- but she was still fearlessly stroking him, stoking that heat, urging him on nonetheless. She was a _good girl_ and so he tells her as much, murmuring it in a thick syrupy tone into her ear once he's done sinking his teeth into the yielding flesh of her neck.

His hips roll against her hand eventually, her ministrations sending burning heat through his thighs and up his spine, and Lydia can feel him happily shiver as her soft lips find the coarse texture of his jaw and cheek. She works him into a slippery, grunting mess, and even then she holds him close, and repeats her love for her house, and for him as if to satiate some needful thing. He has to stop her, then, his own large hand pulling hers from his slick, aching shaft lest he simply douse her in too much enthusiasm.

"Hh….hh…I love you too, baby," he replies, breathily, his voice as gravelly and dark as ever, "But I think if we keep on like this 'm gonna implode, honey. I'm gonna show you the whole house, promise….I just…we should probably test out the uh, durability of this mattress first."

Betelgeuse winks, his sense of humor never too tamped by the haze of his lust – he seems to be reassuring her, too, that his prior threats were primarily to get her _worried… _and he pulls Lydia with him, against him, as he slides onto the circular cushy bed. The rose petals flutter away from underneath him as he pulls off the remainder of his strangely cropped pants, kicking off his shoes. He's left in the duster and ill-fitting vest which rucks up above his gut, exposing it. The ghoul takes off his hat and puts it playfully on Lydia's head, before tugging her up and into his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed, his mossy, plush thighs spread underneath her. He angles his sweet wife above him, and she can see his jade eyes glittering, his expression that of greedy worship of her as she looms over his head. His hands settle on her perfectly curved hips, his rough palms gripping her lightly, and with a hungry growl he nudges the tip of his drooling cockhead between her heated thighs. It pushes up between her lips, first, rubbing at her, pushing them apart for him and nudging eagerly at her clit and coating her soft, sweet sex in runnels of pre. He teases her there, hoping to stoke her, their position leaving him access to the rest of her to kiss her, suck at her lips, invade her mouth again with his tongue.

Eventually, though, this divine torture brings him to a point of need he cannot stand, and he reaches down to adjust his angle – with that, Lydia can feel the oozing, greedy tip of his dick push at the succulent, sweet folds of her opening. He insistently breaches inwards, just enough to work just past her entrance, that velvety, sleek heated nirvana already being forced to stretch for his girth. To him, it feels like he's far too big for her initially, and Lydia can feel his shaft pulse hard.

_"Fuck…."_ he snarls, breathless against her shoulder, whole body tense,_ "Take it,_ baby…" he pulls at her hips a little, then, with the indication that she should impale herself on him.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Rather than easing onto his substantial girth with gentle rocking movements, the intelligent thing to do, Lydia instead attempted to buck down. Muscles inside of her screamed in protest at the abrupt intrusion, and she only succeeded swallowing an inch or so more of length. Kissed-red lips parted wide in a silent scream._ I can't! _She wanted to cry into his chest, releasing a reflexive tear. _Take it out! _Foolish and in love, her discomfort was swallowed in favor of completing the act. She couldn't chicken out now, disappoint herself and him. It was time to nut up or shut up.

Gasping in tandem with the stretching aches that came with taking him on, her hips shifted rigidly and she winced as this only sucked him in deeper. It was time to get him out of her- _only for a moment._ Carefully, she rose up on trembling thighs, gripping his shoulders for stability. Her breath of relief upon his fat head _only just barely, almost_ popping out of her was cut off before it could begin. Cruelly, his claws dug in, and with a growl and buck of his own hips, she was returned right back to where she was before attempting her sneaky retreat. Several inches of thick cock were clenched so tightly within her that she could easily discern each pulsating throb, every hungering twitch

"I'm _sorry… _I just…" she panted, hugging him close, hiding her agony in his moss-ridden chest hair. "I just need a minute…"

This was a plea, a guilty explanation for trying to expel him from her body. Her pained begging seemed to satiate him. The talons leaving their imprints on her hips and ass gentled, rough callouses immediately coming to rub the sting away. The longer he remained lodged firm and immovable within her, the easier it became to handle. What was once a scorching stab was now more of an uncomfortable twinge.

Still trembling from emotional and physical overwhelm, Lydia disengaged from his embrace, subtly wiping her damp cheeks off on the back of her hands as she parted. Still using his broad, solid shoulders for balance, she tried what she should have done from the start and rocked, little shimmying movements that brought that hard cylinder of flesh deeper and deeper into her with each tiny, frightened swing of her hips.

"_Oh,"_ she huffed, cheeks, lips, and nipples flushed, neck rolling until the ends of her hair tickled his thighs. There was a burning pleasure imbued with that stretch now that wasn't there before. _"Beej,"_ her voice was breathier, hitched with sensation, "you're so _big."_

This would mark the first time Lydia had ever complimented his manhood aloud. He seemed well aware of it enough on his own, judging from his dirty talk. Of course, from poor Lydia's angle, she couldn't see that she had only managed to _writhe _and _buck _and _impale _herself on a little less than half of her husband's greedy length.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

She was clearly experiencing discomfort – that in itself was written all over her face. As much as she tried to hide it, Betelgeuse could see it, and feel it. If he were a better man, a kinder man, anybody who wasn't him he might feel _apologetic _and _badly _for her, and attempt to ease her pain. As it was, though, this was Betelgeuse, and her clear inability to take his cock easily only rushed him with renewed, intense arousal.

His dick had never been enveloped in anything as silky, smooth and sweet as this, her body, her living, breathing, clenching, body. She was attempting after a moment to pull off of him, and that dark thing that lives inside of him let her think she was going to get away – for a moment. Easily, he pushes himself right back into her, pulling her back down cruelly, to the exact same point she'd had tried to squirm away from. He's panting, and he breathlessly chuckles. "Ah ah ah," he warns her, "It'll get _better…"_

She begs apologetically, and they remain like that for a moment – the ghoul can't say he isn't fighting every urge to thrust into her, bottom out ruthlessly to take what he wants. But he eases up on her instead, disinclined to be so cruel at this juncture, and purrs solicitously at her instead, "…mm, c'mon…you're taking it like a _champ, _Lyds…"

Lydia pulls back, then, still trembling, her cheeks wet with tears that she hurriedly wipes away. He liked that, too, poor thing…he isn't sure if he's ever made a girl so frightened and emotional over the size of his dick and it mainlines directly into his ego's veins. There was nothing so delicious as a moldy old dead guy making this bright angelic bird of youth so overwhelmed by just being him, turning her, taking something of hers that he could never return. There was nothing so sweet as the corruption of innocence in the traditional sense, and so Betelgeuse was more than happy as it turns out to let her go at a pace she deemed for herself. Because if he made her _like _it…well, you attract more flies with honey.

He is rewarded a few moments later when she seems to figure out the proper motion to work him deeper into her. It makes his dick pulse and gush with each tiny, pushing thrust she takes. Her breathy admission makes his tongue practically loll, and he'd probably have come up with something very witty if he wasn't utterly preoccupied at how amazingly good each and every time he got deeper into her pussy felt. Nothing, nothing compared to this. Instead, he only manages a hot, shameless groan. "And you're so….so _so tight…_ ha….ah…._fuck—Lyds…"_

His pale face scrunches, and his back arches fitfully, and one of his hands pulls off her hip in order to very gently stroke at her clit as if to ease the transition further, to bring her pain back around into that good hurt. He can tell she's almost there, and if he can get her to relax, open to him, he can sink ever deeper. Poor thing hadn't even reached the halfway mark, and he was thoroughly eager to thrust into her. Every part of him was screaming, begging, pleading for him to thrust in fact. He squirms his hips, just enough to try to attempt moving things along a _little _faster, unable to ignore the urge for long. He leans in to her, panting, lapping against one of her delicate pink nipples that had pulled into tender little nubs.

"Please…" he huffs, helpless against her, that thatch of wiry hair tickling her chin no doubt, "…Lyds…sweet'eart…" he wasn't sure what, exactly, he was begging her to do, but it was _something._

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Did she really feel that good to him? His pleasure was her pleasure. Lydia always enjoyed making her husband feel good, though it usually came with a price. Dark features twisted in obscene pleasure, he begged,_ "please," _uttering a phrase she was fairly certain she had never heard trespass his filthy lips before. Clawed fingers danced lightly up and down her thigh as if to urge the tension there away. A calloused thumb pressed delicately at her clit in precise little circles, making her gasp, internal tissues shuddering around him. His gentle, precise touches paired with that tortured plea inspired her to relax some, embrace the hurt.

"I'm _trying,"_ she answered his request with a pretty beg of her own, easily outdoing him in ability to inspire both sympathy and appeal. _It would get better. She could do this._ It was just like when she rode him back in her bedroom after making a steak dinner, _only not like that at all._ Still, she could remember the sinuous, effortless way she swayed her hips then and could attempt to replicate the movements now. Breathing deeply, hugging him tight for the comfort it provided yet leaving enough space for his hand to work its magic and his lips to suckle at her breasts, she increased the fervor of her rocking. Even now, with _"no one around for miles,"_ no interloper living or dead to speak of to intrude upon their tryst, her sweet wounded cries were muffled behind a bit lip as she forced her reluctant flesh to accept _more _and _more _of him.

She was able to work herself into an almost fluid rhythm, rising and sinking onto him succulently, sucking in centimeters at a time, until eventually that fat head nudged at something stubborn inside of her and could go no further. _Finally._ A long-held breath of relief streamed hotly past her lips as she melted against him in victory, only to turn into a gasp as the easing of her muscles sunk him impossibly deeper. For a moment, she was still again, allowing her strung tight body to adjust to the blunt intrusion his twitching cock presented. Eager and unable to stay motionless for long, his hips shifted, forcing his dick to prod at her insides insistently and pulling a sharp cry up her throat.

"_Beej," _she whined, tightening up and moving again, "It's too _much."_ Shallow and jerky, she bounced gracelessly in his lap at his silent urging, the thumb on her clit applying just enough pressure to make her internal tendons squeeze him in ways that felt more like an embrace than a rejection. "I don't know long I can do this," she imparted pitifully, panting, already covered in sweat from her efforts. All the same, she continued attempting to stuff his thick cock into her taut, unyielding flesh.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

If only Lydia really knew _how good_ she felt. That _please _alone was an indicator – and this was perfect, complete torture to the ghoul struggling underneath her. His physical encouragement seems to help her, he can feel her muscles gape just a little from their vice-grip on him to permit further intrusion. She's so deliciously, beautifully constricted, though, and the slow maneuvering is probably for the best at first…the devil that is her husband is purely physically _overwhelmed _it seems for the very moment.

Everything about his wife is like sexual heaven, a feast laid out before him, and if she were to have gone any faster it would have most likely encouraged him to hurt her more than intended. As it is, her pain is sweet, her inability to choke him entirely down even sweeter, and he claws at her hair when he can form enough thought to do so. Her wounded, sad little cries as she forced herself agonizingly slowly onto even more of his cock was _sonorous _to his evil little ears, even as she attempted to muffle them. "That's a good girl…." he keeps muttering like a breathy, desperate mantra, "…good, sweet….sweet Lydia…"

She rides him, just a little then, and he grits out horrible noises against her breast. Her stumbling, awkward, earnest attempts to manage him were like divine fruit. His ego couldn't possibly get any more engorged, nor it seems could his aching, throbbing arousal that almost hammered in his ears. Every time she moved was a searing jolt of hot, magmatic pleasure, and it was taking all his concentration not to simply burst with each one.

Lydia's pleas do not fall on deaf ears. Far from it. As she finally reaches a state where she can go no further, Betelgeuse seems to be reaching the end of his patience. His lust required satisfaction to the fullest, and so he gently tucks Lydia against him and rolls with her like a crocodile, switching their positions. He settles her onto her back on the silk sheets, still stuffed almost completely inside of her and crawls atop in something of a standard missionary position. He's hunched, at first, keeping himself at the same depth within his wife's poor body.

"Y'did real good, baby…" he returns, genuinely praising her, "…but's _my turn_ now. I _need _you." Those dark eyes flash for a moment, looking fiercely, lustily down into her face, mixed with some sort of apologetic expression. His gut brushes her flat tummy as he breathes heavily atop her, "I need this, baby. You feel _so good,_ kitten…I'm not gonna be able to… _stop this."_ His large palms slide down her sides, lovingly, before settling at her hips and gripping there firmly. His thighs spread a little, and his hips suddenly thrust forward firmly and without warning, a throaty, animalistic growl of rewarded pleasure. She was past the point of no return, and he was going to have her.

Slowly, but forcefully, Betelgeuse's hips repeat the motion, pulling back and thrusting in. His cock lurches inside of Lydia and he hits deep within, unapologetically so until he's buried as far as he can go. Lydia can feel the lukewarm skin of his thighs meeting her hips, that wiry thatch of hair pressing against her, and he stays there for a moment to savor the sensation of being entirely surrounded by her luscious, living insides. His cock twitches and pulsates, releasing slow spurts of warm pre continuously inside of her._ "Lyds…"_ he groans, helplessly to her. "Fuckin' hell… I could spend… _eternity _between your thighs, baby…."

With that, he begins to fuck her, deeply, slowly, unrelentingly, driving his dick into working her tight little body open for him. Wet, loud slaps sound out with the meeting of their flesh, his heavy, rhythmic onslaught shaking her underneath him somewhat, causing her breasts to jiggle and bounce. He growls and curses, praising her in a jumbled stream, giving her accolades each time his cock forces its way fully back in only to withdraw over and over again.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Ow- Beej- Ungh!" She cried out brokenly when he first fell into his intense, punishing rhythm, unable to form full coherent sentences. Prettily, she rambled on, never quite asking him to stop, but not encouraging more either. Betelgeuse had no issues establishing a steady pattern, not the way she did. In fact, he seemed to be having the opposite problem. With single-minded abandon he pumped away, hunched over her meager form like some beast partaking of its virgin sacrifice with unbound hunger. Soft, slim legs clenched tight around his hips as if to force his tempo slower. Grunting, he nipped her efforts in the bud again, grabbing hold of one of those thighs wrapped around his waist and pushing it deep into the mattress beside her, calf bent over large hand and knee pushing her breasts together.

All of her insides contracted and it was as though each and every internal muscle was suddenly dedicated to pushing Betelgeuse out. Stubbornly, he jammed his slick wet cock down that tightly drawn tunnel of muscle anyway. _She screamed,_ throaty, unmuffled, staccatoed by his pounding cock and overcome with conflicting sensations. Flushed, butter-soft cheeks became damp with tears again. His glowing praise never paused, even as he grabbed her other leg and pressed it into the sheet on her opposite side as well, forming a perfectly compact _V-shape_ with her thighs, plush little breasts pushed together enough to make them strain and jut out. Supporting his superior weight almost fully on the back of her knees, pinning her down completely, he kept up his persistent fucking. Heavy hips were thrown against her ass and thighs with weighty thrusts. All the while growling endearments and snarling acclaims to her many, many positive qualities were spat down at her with each forceful penetration of her stiff muscles.

Surely, something inside of her had ripped or torn by now. Lydia didn't care. She didn't want him to stop. Maybe slow down some, but never stop. He could take whatever he wanted from her. If it was to fold her into a pretzel and hammer her like a caveman in the beautiful fantasy house he worked hard to buy for her and furnish opulently to her tastes, then that's what he would have. He was so _happy._ The things he was saying were so honeyed, so full of honesty and raw _want._ That sharp discomfort was slowly fading into something _else _anyway, the greedier he was, the more ferociously he forced her to accept him. Her pained shrieks evolved, turned huskier and less frantic, more pleading.

_She was beautiful. He loved her so much. She was such a good girl. She could take it. It wasn't that bad. C'mon, baby, take it. _**Take it.**

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

This was absolute heaven, Lydia's body. It was everything he could have fantasized about and more. Every single part of her felt like it was designed exclusively for him – and as Betelgeuse thrust furiously, wantonly into her that praise that kept rolling from his throat in waves wasn't even close to what she _truly _felt like. He drools over her practically, those fierce eyes scrunched closed, all of his teeth exposed with effort, his tongue lolling more than once.

She was resisting him, and he could feel it. It only egged him on, however, the monstrous thing inside his chest resolute, unyielding. He was going to have this, in every way he could have possibly ever wanted, and her full throated scream sent slimy, horrendous shivers down his back. _Beautiful._

He had made initial use of Lydia's initial flexibility by folding her sexy, luscious legs up, those pert little breasts of hers fully exposed to him, pressed together so provocatively. His eyes, previously scrunched, now drink her in beneath him. Her poor soft cheeks stained with pretty tears, face the picture of unsureness, caught between the worlds of pleasure, pain and _something else._ Her long hair spreads out beneath her like a spill of slick oil, milky skin floating atop a wave of crimson satin.

Betelgeuse was ripping the angel that was Lydia from the heavens and forcing her underneath him. Unbridled lust warmed his entire core as her pained shrieks rolled over into something more akin to desire. There it was. He knew he could convince her eventually if he was only let through the door. He was angling deep inside of her now, but something in his gut twisted ferociously.

He stretches further atop Lydia now, his broad hands under her calves pushing her legs back even further, above her head. Impossibly extending her legs, he grabs her ankles, forcing that V to elongate. He pins her like that, and his thrusts slow down. He changes the pace from that initial burst of needful uncontrolled desire into something else. The ghoul draws back from within her sluggishly, withdrawing inch by inch, only to swing back into her with heavy slowlness, deliberate and with a hard _smack._ In her newfound position, Lydia can feel how deep he's rutting now, the tip of his insistent cock nudging firmly at the limitations of her inner parts.

He groans throatily, and leaves off any other thoughts in order to indulge this new-found position for a time. As always, however, he is lustily restless and inevitably her feet present too much of an opportunity. They're trapped in his grip, too, poor things, and he is finally given the freedom to grossly worship them. He perversely lathes one of them with his tongue, his breath surprisingly hot against her flesh, and the noise he makes is _positively shameful._ Her toes disappear into his mouth to be thoroughly poked, prodded and sucked inside of it. Worst of all, with the slow, meticulous thrusts he's providing now, she can feel how much _more _aroused he gets at this.

On the horizon, somewhere, a storm is brewing outside of the glass pained windows. Unnoticed by them both, it seems to have a strange, green glow that is thoroughly unnatural. Lightning strikes at the black water below. Betelgeuse is pre-occupied, but even _he _shivers without warning. _Strange._

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

In spite of all her rigid muscle's tedious efforts at rebellion, Lydia finally came to an exquisite surrender beneath him. Meaty palms snaked around her ankles to tug her legs up high, anchoring them down on either side of her arms as she grasped uselessly at the decadent sheets above her head. Like always, though it took her longer to adjust now than any time before, she melted under his assault. Pale fingers released their vice grip on crimson silk. Once firm tendons became soft and pliant to his abuse. All at once, each of her strung taut limbs released all tension and fight, turning to putty for him to mush and shape as he pleased.

Her submission yielded rewards. His tempo slowed without sacrificing intensity, and he invested himself in feasting on her foot. Grimy teeth scraped liberally across the miniscule joints in her toes, sucking and nibbling ardently at the tiny extremities. This act was so particularly obscene, it almost served to distract her from the way his ever-swelling girth was fucking deep into her insides. Pitifully, she succumbed further, singing melodious cries with each slow, brutal clap of his thighs and hips and gut slamming down against her, into her, pushing oxygen from her lungs in order to make space for more useful things. She was so _full._ She could feel every inch, thick and hot, slowly, slowly, _slowly _pulling out of her clenched, stretched, abused pussy only to shove back in with careless hunger, a hoggish snarl muffled into the soles of her feet.

It was always easier to give in to him than to struggle. He always got his way. Not that her dissent was in any way elective. Lydia had no more control over her body's rejection of him than he had of his vicious lust over her. She would have preferred to accept him easily from the beginning, but the monster had worked at building up her nervousness to a point where relaxing for him was not such a simple task. Now that she didn't have to dedicate so much mental and physical energy to unwinding tense limbs, she could focus on how good that big, violating cock actually felt. That furnace inside of her had been burning for awhile under her notice, but the blistering heat of her coming peak could not be ignored.

"I love you," she moaned, breathy and high, as he came down on her with another bullish roll of his hips. Face wet, though it seemed she was done crying tears, she rambled deliriously, core fluttering and rippling while she came, coating his defiling phallus in a thick, viscous cream. _"Oh- _I love you _so much-"_ she hitched as he rutted into her brutally again, riding her orgasm for all it was worth with domineering entitlement. If his pleasure was hers, then hers was without a doubt _his._

Outside, the storm crept closer. Howling winds swept over the land, rustling the forests, singing songs of mischief throughout the labyrinthine coves, and arousing sandstorms over the desert. Beasts everywhere within the vicinity were a flutter, relishing the wicked disturbance in the atmosphere. They mated and roared and reveled, the sounds of their debauchery harmonizing sinfully with the violent weather. Together in the lighthouse, the union of living and dead flesh were collectively oblivious to the hellish froth springing forth from the realm around them. Perhaps the edges of their consciousness were tickled by the brewing turmoil, but beyond that, they remained blissfully unaware, too passionately entangled with carnal exploits.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse can feel the moment when Lydia finally relaxes underneath him. Of course, her body remains just as tight around him, but the muscles start to pull, and tug, and milk at him in a way they hadn't been doing previously. Blissfully, they leave him making hot, muffled noses with her poor foot still stuffed into his moss encrusted gob. As if it couldn't get better, he can tell she's reaching her first orgasm and encourages it, keeping up that rough, but slow and brutal pace.

She professes her love to him, then, and cums for him. _Oh _– the things her body does when that happens, too, are _positively divine._ All of her insides clench and pull, and he relinquishes her metatarsals with a slick, slobbering noise in order to heatedly murmur encouragement. "I love… _you…oh… _that's it kitten… beautiful… _ah…_" that thick, warm cream coats his cock, too, he makes a thoroughly guttural noise as he feels the sensation of it. She was _perfect _and he tells her so.

He can tell his initial orgasm isn't far behind hers, and he as he rides her he can feel the tension building. There's a cacophony of sorts outside, strange howls, cries, and the sea beginning to boil against the rocks. The rumbles and hisses of the weather outside finally seem to reach his ears deafened to anything but Lydia's moans and cries. His eyes vaguely shift from her to the blackened sky outside, when suddenly there's a crack of lightning. It hits the tip of the lighthouse with a loud _CRACK!_ before coursing all along the outside of it. It finds entrance through one of the windows, streaking along the floor in an instant and reaching the pair.

Betelgeuse is suddenly illuminated, a rush of powerful energy hitting his bare skin. It fades as soon as it comes, though, only lasting a brief moment. The storm continues on outside, but the ghoul has been _touched _– and the surge brings his orgasm to completion, causing him to roar out loudly, pumping the girl underneath him full of hot, energetic spunk. His whole body tingles with static electricity. Whatever energy this was it was heavily loaded, and some of it overflows even into Lydia through his orgasmic shudders. He curses, and pants, and grabs at her.

"Sorry Lyds….gonna have to ….round _two,_ baby…can't…stop…," he grits, suddenly relinquishing her ankles and pulling at her shoulders. He pulls entirely out in order to twist her over, almost instantly recapturing her and resuming his punishing sexual efforts. "I …thought the….it would _hit _durin' the weddin', but…I'll explain later…ohhh baby, I'm still _so hungry…"_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Some infernal force beyond her grasp had taken hold of him. _He was a beast!_ With inhuman stamina and supernatural strength, he slammed wetly against her backside, his heavy sack swinging to smack her fleshy inner thighs every time he drove into her. Her legs were given a break from their previous strain, instead pushed together so that he could straddle her thighs, tuck her hips up, and stuff his cock into the tight, scorching little crevice created by this position. Ragged claws tangled in her hair to force her head to the side, giving him full access to an expanse of satiny, porcelain flesh. The sweet things spewing out his mouth in an endless jumble turned decidedly filthy. Amid leaving harsh bites along the petite slope of neck and shoulder, he whispered atrocious things to her; that he could stare at that ass all day, that she sucked cock like a goddamn pornstar, but _fuck baby, is your pussy made of fuckin' gold? That's right, open up for daddy._

Indeed, she was blossoming for him even as he kept her imprisoned with the entirety of his heaving form. That electricity hit her too, ricocheting off him and jolting her full of a sudden burst of energy, drawing a fresh wave of gooseflesh along her sweat-slicked skin that didn't have anything to do with Betelgeuse's touch.

Having acclimated to it, gained a taste for it even, she pressed her ass into his violent thrusts, presenting a readiness for more. Her back arched deeply, knees pressing into the cushy mattress, and slick thighs strained beneath the bulk of his weight, wet with sweat, cum, and the slightest trickling of pink. The callous hand knotted in her bounty of hair took advantage of it for the leash that it was and pulled, encouraging her back to arch further, dramatically. The stretch forced her cushiony ass cheeks apart just so, giving him a somewhat obstructed view to the sight of his thick, veiny cock sinking into her, drenched with their combined juices and just a bit of her blood. With a push of his thumb, that pillowy flesh was moved aside to reveal even more secret flesh to his diabolical gaze; the impossibly diminutive virgin orifice just above their joining.

He wouldn't have it tonight, but it sure was fun to look at.


	15. The Devil's Tango

_**Guidebetelgeuse:**_

Indeed, that sweet little pucker of Lydia's was a sight, and the ghoul was highly keen on crawling his way into it at some point or another. For now, he simply lustfully drank in the view of her slick pussy swallowing him up with the experience of someone much more accustomed to this sort of thing. His current preoccupation though was all this _energy _– it had bounced into his bride, that was certain, with the way she was heatedly encouraging him to breed her so roughly. Never one to withhold his lust from Lydia especially, and stoked by her eager responses to him, the intensity of his movements increases into a punishing and unrelenting rhythm.

In fact, he was set up to fuck her continuously for quite some time. From this position she coaxed from him two more intense, messy orgasms, and he encouraged from her much the same. He didn't require any sort of relief, and the slaking of his sexual needs was something of a tremendous marathon. The trickle of energy that the powerful storm still surging at the windows provided keeps Lydia going for some time, it seems, but eventually Betelgeuse finds himself having to use his juice in order to sustain her and ease the extended assault on her body.

Eventually, there are breaks for brief engagements for other pursuits. He smokes, sometimes, or has a beer, and she is permitted to get water or use the bathroom. He doesn't allow her to leave the room itself, however, and she is usually not ever far from the bed before he pounces again. It isn't clear how long this process goes on for, exactly, but inevitably he allows Lydia to sleep. Even through this, however, he mounts her repeatedly, monstrously, plying her with pleas and promises until he has had his fill again. Finally, he leaves her to fully sleep in sheer exhaustion when he can barely rouse her for more sex.

Restless still, and with his sexual appetite almost fully satiated, the ghoul has one other thing left on his mind. Revenge and violence. With Lydia fully out of commission, Betelgeuse was free to do _anything _in the mortal and non-mortal worlds both. That surge of electricity was no ordinary thing. The storm outside had calmed into a cool night, but there was one thing Betelgeuse had now that he hadn't before. Complete and total freedom, and every ounce of power a ghost can be gifted. He had downplayed it for Lydia's sake during their first encounter, but _this _is what he had _really _wanted. To be unlimited in ability, to bend and break the rules that once trapped him. In a silent blink, he was gone from the lighthouse bedroom, only to reappear in Lydia's mortal home dressed in his striped suit as if he has always been there.

An oversized striped axe in his hand, he drags the weighty thing behind him as he casually descends the main staircase. Each time the axe hits a stair, it makes a loud _THUNK _that is difficult to ignore. "Delia….Charles….." he calls, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy!"

It was simplistic, sure, and altogether brutal, but axe murder was at least relatively easy to explain to nervous policemen. Right? Towards the bottom of the stairs, he looks over the banister into the living room, and sees the Maitlands seated politely on the couch. For all intents and purposes, they seem to be _pointedly _ignoring his dramatic entrance.

"Babs! Adam, hermano. Either one of you stiffs seen the breathers? …I was gonna talk to 'em, give 'em the ole _big apology…_" he makes no move to hide the axe though, which doesn't seem to indicate any sort of apology at all.

* * *

_**TheArtOfSuicide:**_

_"You,_" Barbara hissed with all the pleasantness of a rabid possum. Despite the venom, this was a far calmer greeting than Betelgeuse could have expected from the Maitland woman. Rather than jumping straight for the family jewels, she remained seated on the couch, sipping her coffee, skimming over the handbook, and glaring. Pointedly, she ignored his question in favor of dealing out her own. "Do you plan on returning Lydia anytime soon? She's missed two days of school."

Miss Shannon had left a rather biting voicemail on the machine. Barbara was in the midst of trying her damnedest to learn how to throw her voice across the waves and wires so that she might impersonate Delia and provide a decent lie for Lydia's unexcused absences. She was not having much luck. Adam's mood and demeanor were equally foul. Sneering over the lip of his mug, he spared the poltergeist and his ax one hard stare before returning his attention to that week's issue of The Winter River Gazette.

"They're not here," he deigned to answer with a depth of bitterness that sounded wrong and cold on passive, gentle Adam Maitland. At that moment, he and his wife seemed so very defeated, so full of unquenched rage and despair with no end in sight. "Check the note on the bar," he intoned grimly without lifting dead turquoise eyes from his paper or gesturing. "It'll tell you _everything _you want to know."

That neither of the deceased Maitlands was interested in protecting Lydia's absentee parents from his wrath spoke hideous volumes.

_Pumpkin,_

_Your mother and I love you very much but are unable to continue sharing a house with you, Adam and Barbara, or that __**monster**__. You brought it into our lives and from what we have come to understand, only you can remove it. I will continue paying the bills on the house and your tuition to Miss Shannon's, provided you continue attending, but the environment has become far too toxic and hostile for us all to continue to coexist healthily. Should you recover from this hopefully momentary lapse in sanity and banish it back to __**wherever you called it from**__, we're just a phone call away. We love you and will miss you._

_All my best,_

_Daddy_

* * *

_**Guidebetelgeuse:**_

The axe is replaced magically with a microphone after Adam relays the fact that the Deetzes are no longer within the house, the cord of which continues to extend behind him for as long as it needs to go. There's only the Maitlands to perform for, but the ghost seems perfectly willing to entertain their bad mood.

"Ayes, that's right, it's _The Ghost with-a THE Most_, comin' to ya live from Wintah Rivah!" he twirls into the living-room, leaning over Barb briefly, gutturally muttering into her ear, "Listen toots, I'll ask the questions from here on out, okay?"

His announcing continues, "We're here to interview Mister and Missus Maitland on the mysterious disappearance of _The Deetzes_, their former house shut-ins from-a New York City! Why did they move out into the stix? They claim their house is haunted, could it possibly be true? Whatever ghosts live here must be the most amusing pieces of work – Delia Deetz claimed their cocktail came to life and _messed up all her fabulous makeup!"_

He wanders away from them and towards the kitchen, still narrating.

"As I'm walking through this house, darlings, I can tell you that someone vomited industrial bullshit all over some sort of nouveau farmhouse nightmare, here, folks. The décor looks just as haunted as the inhabitants, I'm tellin' ya! Ha!"

Betelgeuse reaches the bar and plucks the note off the surface. The narration stops as he reads it, and those jade eyes flick upwards at both Barb and Adam after he's through. He lifts the paper to the cigarette dangling from his pale lips, and it incinerates almost instantaneously. Dark, impassioned fury passes over his features briefly.

"Wellp, they suck," he says, as he wanders back out from behind the bar, looking frank. "The job is complete, you two. I bio-exorcised yer house, the girl included. I _might _be convinced to let her come back here _if,"_ he leans invasively back over Adam, dangling the microphone aggravatingly into his face, nudging his cheek with the end of it almost lewdly, "Y'record right into this microphone why she needs to come home and _why _ya ain't mad at her. You can't scare worth a fucking shit but you scared her. Plus, I got her holed up in a fucking paradise, so it's gonna take some _convincing _if y'get my drift."

He pauses, and then adds, grinning, "By the way, your bill for my services'll be in the mail."

* * *

_**TheArtOfSuicide:**_

_If that son of a bitch thought he was getting a cent of their…_ they didn't even have any money! Couldn't even walk to the mailbox! The flustering rampage he was inciting was tampered by the way he dangled Lydia precariously before them, forcing them to prove themselves of all things.

"What?!" Barbara started along with her husband, clasping hands, brows furrowing deeply in concern. "We're not _mad _at her," she cried into the microphone, forgetting herself, and then swatted the annoying prop out of her face. "How could she think we're _mad _at her?" Barbara was visibly heartbroken at the notion.

"We love her," Adam insisted fiercely, taking a heavy step forward to place himself between the ghoul and his wife, protective nature kicked into overdrive. "More than the Deetzes ever did. That's _our _daughter- and- and-" agitated, Mr. Maitland hastily removed his glasses to wipe them thoroughly on his untucked plaid shirt before placing them back firmly high on his nose. "- and _how dare you-_ you waltz in here like you own the place and question it!"

Barbara rubbed along her husband's shoulders, unaccustomed to seeing him so worked up. After taking a moment to compose himself, he continued. "I know Lydia, I know she cares about her grades, and I know she wouldn't have wanted to miss school like this. She's been gone for _four days._ We've been _so worried-"_ Adam cut off here, lips growing stiff with emotion and fists tightening as though he wanted to punch something- likely Betelgeuse's smug jaw.

"If it's about you," Mrs. Maitland chimed in, taking over for her husband, "if she thinks we're upset about you, _please _tell her that we don't blame her. It's not her fault. We know that. It's-" _our fault. Her parents. Fate._ "- it's not her fault."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"That'll be sufficient," the ghoul replies, abruptly, and he pockets the microphone into his suit jacket, the cord still dangling out. He seems relatively unaffected and perhaps even _bored _by their concern – albeit he could be playing it up simply to vex the both of them.

"I'm not questionin' anythin', _kids._ You're her parents now, 's far as I can see." Betelgeuse crosses his legs casually where he stands and seems unperturbed by Adam's posturing, "Mom, dad, I'd come in for a hug but you put a sandworm where physical intimacy could have been. Plus I don't want any tears wrinklin' up my suit jacket."

He then checks his watches and sniffs dismissively. Had it really been _four days?_ He taps one of them and listens. They're working, but clearly, he lost track of time. No matter. What's the importance of any of this to him? Nada.

The ghoul starts for the stairs again. "I'm gonna get some of her things and try n' convince her she needs to come home. It'll be a tough sell, but I can sell _almost anything._ I mean," he looks confidential, sly, "She married me, didn't she?"

With a smug, evil glance over his shoulder and a rude chuckle, Betelgeuse fades out of the living room entirely.

He packs all of her things he thinks she might need into a rucksack hastily. Barb and Adam had responded _beautifully,_ and internally he was grudgingly very happy they were clearly on Lydia's team. He was too, of course, though his intentions were quite different. _Fuck _her parents! Fuck the Deetzes! At least the Maitlands would see to things where he couldn't.

He mutters huffily to himself as he smokes furiously and stuffs various things from her drawers and bathroom into the one bag. He's very certainly making a mess of it, and anyone smarter would have probably just juiced the items directly into the light-house. But he's not the brightest crayon in the box, just the _wickedest _one perhaps, and so he's gone with the Grinch method instead.

He's fairly efficient, but he does stop to smell the roses…well, her undies, with a happy sort of grumble before wriggling them into his bag. He's in the midst of raiding her underwear drawer, in fact, when Barb bursts into the room thanks to his clattering and stomping around.

"If you think you can _run away_ from this convers…" she's cut off by the sight of him practically draped in half of Lydia's underwear, and she winds up like an enraged spring. Barb makes a charge for him.

Betelgeuse, startled by her entrance and fully caught in the act also manages to see her prepare to strike and he launches away from her like a cat, crashing onto the top of Lydia's much-abused vanity and hurling himself through the mirror. Barb barely manages to miss grabbing him. She can hear his laughter through the glass, and she pounds her hand against the wood in thwarted anger.

Covered in underwear, Betelgeuse is spat out back into the lighthouse bedroom in a tumble of legs, arms and stripes. He clutches the rucksack, though, triumphantly, and like an over-excited puppy he crawls back into bed with his precious wife without changing any part of his current state. As if entirely forgetting the previous romp he'd put her through he crouches up against her.

"Lyds," he hisses, far too close to her ear, brimming with enthusiasm, "Lyds, I got your things. Also, Barb and Adam say _hi _and uh, you totally missed four days of school but it's not my fault."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_"No more," _Lydia mumbled, not yet awake and pushing at him feebly as he loomed over her. In her dream hazed state, she hadn't quite grasped what he was saying and thought her ravenous husband had come back for more. _"I can't."_

Coming lazily into consciousness, she became aware of her bruised and battered state before anything else. She didn't need to see her reflection to know she was absolutely littered with bruises, hickeys, and bite marks. Tender flesh ached all over, inside and out. In spite of it all, she was glowing. Even as it sunk in that she _missed school_ and Betelgeuse had gone back _without her,_ she sunk deeper into the plush mattress in her beautiful bedroom in her beautiful house where her husband who loved her had just fucked her into and through a coma– and she simply couldn't be bothered to be upset.

Still, she groaned, "What did you _dooo,"_ finding it in her to feign annoyance. After all, an unsupervised Betelgeuse was a dangerous Betelgeuse. Even so, her negligent watch and lenient judgment had proved ineffective. He got away with murder under her keeping. _"Please_ tell me you didn't hurt anyone. We still have a deal. I don't want to have to go back and check." Everything hurt. The mere thought of straddling that bike, lugging around all those heavy textbooks made her entire body tense painfully in protest. She hadn't even seen the rest of her house. Claire used to skip class all the time and had still managed to maintain a passing grade. Lydia could afford another day or two.

However, a Neitherworld day was obviously different from a living world day.

"_Jesus Christ, B,"_ she yawned, blinking awake, breath hitching as her morning stretch upset some sorely abused muscles. "That's a long time…" The math was sinking in now, as well as a tickle of worry. "Maybe I _should _go back. What if I get distracted and twenty years go by? That would suck." At the start of working herself into a pit of anxiety, but still flush and languid from exorbitant fucking, she attempted to sit up too quickly only to cringe and gasp, falling back into the sheets and grabbing at her middle. The pain wasn't too terrible, but it was enough to hinder the seeds of her panic.

"Ow," she pouted, frustrated, and resorted to complaining. "That _hurt._ I don't want to go to school, or come back too late and find my parents old. The sight of us would probably shock them into heart attacks." Lydia's dark, dry humor was showing again. "What happened? Are they upset? Did they ask abou_really _t me? You weren't too mean to Adam and Barb, were you?… _Why are you covered in my underwear?"_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The ghost simply chuckles at Lydia's initial drowsy responses to him. The poor thing. He knows she can't, and so he settles in against her, even as she moans at him about what in the world he's done. "I only hurt you, kitten," he mutters into her ear, "Nobody else. And you seemed to like it."

As if to illustrate his point, she attempts to sit up, and he winces on her behalf. "Ah, ah….careful. Well, y'see, that's sort of the trouble when you're dead, time runs a little …well, you know. But no— it's only been a few days. I'll give you another one of my watches if y'like. In the meantime, I …am….going to…" _avoid all of your questions, _"…draw you a bath! You like baths."

Betelgeuse gives Lydia an affectionate kiss on her soft cheek, and with a grunt, he's rolling off the bed again, shedding underwear as he goes. "Barb and Adam do want ya to come home," he says, "They're not mad. I have a recording of them sayin' so. And I didn't even fake it! Barb practically sobbed into my lapels at how much they adore ya kitten. It was cute. I almost puked."

He seems to be pointedly avoiding talking about her parents. "And I didn't do nothin' to em. But I sure as hell went through your undies, y'know, you'll need those…as much as I like the idea of ya not havin' em…. and Barb has a keen ear for perversion as it turns out."

The water echoes through the bath, his voice muffled but still heard clearly from within. He emerges soon after, and gathers his aching, nude wife into his arms like a little bundle. He's careful about it, easing her off the bed gingerly. "We'll getcha right as rain. You can go to school knowin' yer a princess in another land. A queen even. With a _king!_ Oooo, I like that. _King _Betelgeuse…King…Daddy Betelgeuse…" he snorfles, pleased with himself.

Betelgeuse lowers Lydia into the steaming, roman bath. The bathroom itself is quite thoroughly lavish, but the bath itself is roman in style. More like a pool versus anything else, it is attended by entwined serpents, chintzy gold, and large evil looking fanged fish that feed it with hot water. He is careful not to get too close to the water himself, lest it might clean him in some horrific way. "Y'look good," he murmurs, hunched at the edge, drawing that ever-long beautiful hair of Lydia's back behind her shoulders to admire the pattern of marks and bruises he left on her. "You kept up with me, Lyds, I'm _impressed…"_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

The miniature Roman bath was separated from the rest of the bedroom by a sheer crimson curtain and a half wall bedecked with stone pillars along the midpoint. Cut out into the marble floor was a small pool with submerged benches running along the edge. Twin serpents of gold fed a continuous stream of scalding water into the private spring. It could easily fit eight to ten people. A similarly opulent walk-in shower took over the corner nearest the window, but she would have to explore that another time.

Lydia could see knobs below the viper's heads to adjust the flow and temperature, as well as a handful of fanged fish with tiny levers of their own. Idly, Lydia toyed with one that was within her reach. A sweet, rose-scented oil began to trickle into the pool through elongated, gleaming fangs. When she was satisfied with the smooth consistency of the water, she shut it off and trifled with another. Something thick and white with a scent too light to name oozed out of a fish's mouth to rapidly cloud the water, turning it milky until her body's image was distorted through the once clear ripples.

The second substance was a _miracle elixir._ Almost instantly, all the soreness and tension eased from her muscles, melting away to nothing in the searing, blissful little pond. She could actually _move _again. Taking advantage of the freedom of bodily autonomy, she took a deep breath and dipped beneath the surface entirely, drenching her mane and any dry skin. She emerged moments later, strings of saturated hair clinging to her flushed cheeks, gasping, as if springing forth from some twisted, demonic baptism.

_The virgin has been sacrificed, only to be resurrected and rebirthed anew as the devil's personal whore._ Ignorant to how poetically symbolic her innocent bath time explorations were, she sunk into the bench closest to her fiendish husband and allowed herself to relax, head lolling back to rest along one of the perfectly chiseled serpentine guardians.

"I did _not _'keep up with you'," she rejected lazily, blinking up at him as he drew back her hair, voice somewhat hoarse from all the work her vocal cords put in the previous night. "I barely held on. If that's what it's going to be like every time, I'm going to have to put you on a schedule. Weekends only. I can't ride my bike to school like _this." _

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Disappointingly, the cloudy water does obscure Lydia's entrancing nudity. However, it seems that the white stuff is working its magic – and Betelgeuse was smart _enough _to install things like this. He wouldn't have, had it been anyone else- nor would he have purchased a house for them exclusively, among many other things- but Lydia is a living thing and those require certain amounts of upkeep and gentility, it seems. Beyond which he seemed fully prepared for this eventuality with the way their relationship had been building. By the time he could indulge, it was like he had been in sexual torture of a kind for _far _too long – able to have her but _not._ Still, he will always recollect fondly and lustily that all-too-fevered rutting they had between them in a back alley beyond Donny's ice cream parlor.

Despite not being able to see the rest of her, Lydia looked almost as sexy wet as she did dry. As she breaches the water with her hair streaming, cheeks flushed, he is free to ogle her thoroughly and does so, a low noise rattling from within his throat. As she chastises him for his proclivities he chuckles, pleased. "Weekends only!" he protests playfully, showing his teeth in a grimace, "Mm, I dunno Lyds. We'll have to negotiate that. But y'took the edge off pretty nicely… 's what happens when I'm sexually frustrated for too long, babes. _Pow._ It's like that…uh…Moldy Cypress song. _He came in like a wreeeecking ball…."_

He produces what looks like a cigarette from his inner pocket, but upon closer inspection has the distinct odor of cannabis and tobacco. A spliff, it would seem, and he lights it up before popping it between his lips. He's noticed an additional discomfort when Lydia moves, and he's apparently determined to help. He rolls up a sleeve and detaches one of his hands, sending it scurrying like Thing down the edge of the bath in order to coat it in some sort of liquid using one of the golden spigots. From where he sits, Lydia can either feel or hear him audibly shudder, as if being touched by something he dislikes, and his grimy hand returns coated in a glossy, sweet smelling fluid.

He almost looks pained as he crunches it back onto his wrist, and with a furious grimace he plunges his newly reattached limb into her hair. It seems he's attempting to wash her beautiful locks, but his expression is more like a cat that's been stuffed into a sweater. Nonetheless, he is lathering her dedicatedly, sitting at the edge of the pool with his legs crossed.

"Hey, uh, random question, but uh," his discomforted face only becomes more awkward behind her, "You ever consider like…mmm, maybe what it might be like to have the Maitlands as yer actual parents? That'd be pretty nice right?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

His lathering of her hair was rough and unpracticed, but sweet, so she allowed it. However, he obviously had no idea what he was doing. Carefully, she threaded her fingers up to entwine with his, slow him down and show him how to do it right. Within seconds, he was an expert, scratching those claws deliciously along her scalp and frothing the soap into a rich, creamy lather that stood out starkly on her raven mane. Lydia shuddered, scotting up close to the edge to indulge in his grooming.

"They already _are,_ pretty much," she answered with unabashed honesty, unquestioning of his motives. While he massaged, his other hand ran off to gather conditioner. She took the last half of the spliff from him so that he could do so unencumbered. "Adam helps me with my homework," her scalp dipped under at his subtle direction to rinse the foam away, but she kept her face above water to keep talking, "and Barb taught me how to sew and cook better, took care of me when I got sick… They do things like that… Mom things. Dad things."

Very, very gently, he pet and tugged her hair about until it was good and rinsed. Then, he set to work raking a generous, pearlescent dollop of hair-softening balm throughout, from ends to roots.

"Why do you ask?" She asked, still rolling into his touch, eyes closed and lips turned in the slightest of frowns as they wrapped around the end of the spliff. "I thought you hated them."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Well, that's _good,_ Lyds. I mean, that's important," Betelgeuse hesitates, and then adds, "Yeah I mean, no love lost there, they fed to me to a sandworm right when the priest was _about _to seal the deal, ha." He's only halfway paying attention to what he's saying and doing, nervous about her reaction to the news he's about to deliver, and so once Lydia's hands guide him into a better way of running through her locks he appears relatively grateful.

His spliff easily taken by his wife, too, he sends the other hand off in a scurry. It almost slips into the bath on its way back from fetching conditioner, but somehow regains its "footing" on all five disgusting fingers and slides home without further incident.

"But…" he continues, clearly uncomfortable as he eventually works the balm into her hair, post conditioning and rinsing, "Well, your parents – er, your step mom n' dad kinda…maybe decided that would be really good for you if uh….the Maitlands were your actual…parental unit for a while, _in loco parentis_ if ya know what I mean. Like ah uh. Trial run, sorta like. The Maitlands seemed _real happy_ 'bout it. And uh, also Chuckie and Delia went on some sorta _vacation _and I dunno, I wasn't really paying attention," the ghoul reaches a finger into his moss ridden ear and squirms it around in there distractedly, before flicking the contents out grossly, "Anyway, now you have a dead family instead of a live one that _should _be dead."

The last is said with some vitriol and a particularly phlegmy dismissive snort.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Without the use of any kind of hairband or clip, Lydia took her conditioned swathe of hair and swirled it this way and that until it was coiled in a neat, solid knot above her head and out of the way. _Girl magic._

"They were already gone when you showed up, then?" She queried bluntly without looking his way, stepping deeper into the pool to further engulf within its soothing heat. Standing at the deepest level in the center, the water came up right to her neck as if it was designed and built specifically to her proportions. His silence was taken as a damning affirmative. "Figures. Probably left some passive aggressive note calling me crazy, right?" More silence. _"Right." _

Absently, she kept moving around, both stretching her sore muscles and marveling at the bath and all its different features. She could feel jets along the walls. The serpents' entwined tails looked pliable. With a tug, she found the secret switch and the pool came to life. _"Oh God,"_ she moaned, stopping her curious pursuit in favor of introducing her lower back to the borderline punishing jetstream. This was _so much better_ than the jacuzzi in her father and Delia's bathroom.

Or was it Adam and Barbara's now? "Thank you for helping with my hair."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse is indeed impressed with Lydia's hair magic, though at her cool response as she headed for deeper water was mildly troubling. It was if she was _accustomed _to this sort of behavior…as if this had happened to her _before._ The ghoul squinted, and frowned, and refused to answer her direct questions – which she was smart enough to take as answers in the manner she did.

It was impressive, the way she immediately figured out the bath. "Jeez Lyds," he remarks absently, "I thought it was gonna take you a _little _longer to figure that tub out. I hid all sortsa stuff in there for ya. The jets are pretty good though, huh?"

He rolls onto his back like a languid striped cat, looking at her upside-down and lazily, restless on the beautiful marble floor. "Welcome. I like yer hair. I'm sorry the Maitlands stopped me from gettin' yer parents real good when I had the chance. Admittedly, towards the end there, I was …ah….fairly _distracted _once I'd spooked Delia off with the ole snake-between-the-legs, tossed Chuck off the banister n' thrown that little blueberry of a breather Otho down the stairs… was only _you _left."

He grins, mischievously at her, showing all his awful teeth.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia had been on the receiving end of many notes just like the one Betelgeuse incinerated, though they were usually of a less permanent nature. Little "sorry's", "love you's" and "miss you bunches", her father's nickname for her written carelessly in Delia's cursive, paired with an explanation for why they just couldn't bring her on their latest trip or cruise or whatever it was they were doing to cling their youth and waste their money.

It was no secret that they didn't love her, no surprise that they weren't willing to stick around and even _try _to make it work with their poltergeist son-in-law for her sake. It was a miracle they'd endured the Maitlands as long as they had. They were probably just counting down the minutes until Lydia turned eighteen and they could sell the house, unload their ghosts on some other unsuspecting family.

"There's more than just these jets?" Lydia veered down a more comfortable line of questioning easily, eager to change the subject. "Is there a water slide in here? A secret shark cage for my enemies, James Bond style?"

This was not the first time he had alluded to having less than noble intentions with her when he attacked her with the snake. Titillating as a threat, she _had to know._ "What _would _you have done?" She questioned, head lolling sluggishly and blinking slow. "If Barbara hadn't call you back, I mean… You wouldn't have _hurt _me."

The last wasn't a question. It came automatically and with unshakable faith. He was her hero. Her Prince Charming- her _King!_ _He could never hurt her,_ she mused, soaking in the bath that was drawn to help ease the sting from bruises he had left behind.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Ha, no," Betelgeuse replies, a larger grin splitting his face, "But we can absolutely _install _those things…" he twines his fingers and hitches one leg up, folding it across the other casually. He remains upside-down like a peculiar owl for a while. "I like the shark idea."

He rolls back over slowly at her question, and he laughs. "Oh, well, I certainly would have _absconded _with ya," he murmurs, placing a plump, mossy cheek into his palm. "I wouldn't have hurt you, no. I liked y'too much. From the moment I saw you, you stirred somethin' in me, if y'get my drift."

Those shadowy eyes glitter and squint, "I woulda just, y'know, gotten you alone maybe. Gotten us _better acquainted a little sooner_ that's all." His head tilts, and his finger dips into the water to swirl at it. "I can be pretty _convincin' _when I wanna be."

He pauses, and then adds, "But, I liked finding out you were _awful _at charades, y'know. You were so smart, peggin' me as the snake right off. You were _infuriatin' _– figurin' it all out so _fast._ All you wanted was Barb n' Adam, and all I wanted was _you."_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia still had the good decency to flush like a tomato. She knew very well how convincing he could be. "Using a fancy word doesn't change what it is. You're talking about _kidnapping._ I was _fourteen,_ you creep," she accused particularly affectionately, daring to flick him with a tiny bit of water. He practically hissed, making her cackle in a way that made her sides twinge even through the healing waters.

"Oh, Beej," she sighed happily, kicking off of the bottom to float nearer to him, unafraid of his ire. She came to grip the submerged bench, bruised back, hindquarters, and thighs drifting to the surface as she stretched and maintained the proper breathing pattern to stay afloat. Lydia was quite buoyant, so this was second nature. "It really wasn't that difficult to figure out. You had the same hair. You sounded the same. You seemed like kind of a jerk. There were only so many dead people in the house. It was the only logical conclusion."

Carefully, she began walking up the steps to get out, taking Betelgeuse's arm in anticipation that she might experience difficulty. The soak helped to alleviate a lot, but her legs were still shaky from all the strain they had been under the previous night, the flesh between her thighs raw.

"Help me to the shower?" She requested pitifully, eyes big, sure to get what she wanted. Bubby had been helping her work on her puppy dog look. "I'm all _slippery._ I don't want to fall."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Hey, in _my defense_ y'didn't look or act fourteen, okay?" Betelgeuse huffs, flinching and nearly hissing as Lydia gets him with a good flick of water. _Yuck!_ She laughs at his reaction, and he sneers. "I dunno what a living fourteen year old girl looks like, yer breather ages are so _arbitrary._ Ya had tits, _prolly,_ somewhere under that black smock you were wearin'. I was willin' to _find out –_ just like I found out how many cobwebs were under Delia's dress. In case you were curious, it was_ a lot."_

As Lydia floats nearer and changes position, he was thoroughly distracted from her teasing in place of what she looks like. Pale, but bruised smooth curves float atop the milky water, that pert little hind end of hers looking perfectly edible. He makes some sort of approving, throaty noise to himself in admiration. _Devil's personal whore, or goddess of the opaline pool._ It didn't matter, really, and he barely catches what she says.

"I'm still surprised… y'seemed a bit _concerned _durin' that little creative tete-a-tete of mine, I wasn't sure if you'da picked up on all that. Yer parents sure as hell didn't, I scared 'em so witless both times I don't think they knew their ass from their ankles. Though I made an impression with that _weird snake shrine_ Delia made, you'd think she'd be _grateful _for the inspiration. I oughtta ask her for a cut of her sales, yanno? D'ya think I have a case for that? Copyright laws…"

As he rambles on, he takes her arm without thinking as she reaches for him. He eases up onto his knees and then stands as she proceeds out of the bath slowly. He really had put her through her paces, and he'd feel bad…if he had the capacity to do in this instance. Instead, the monstrous thing that informs most of his actions is awfully pleased with himself. Lydia won't soon forget her first experience, that's for absolute certain.

Betelgeuse gives her a look of slanted curiosity as he glances at her askance. "Th' _shower?"_ he asks, and looks back at the water from whence she came, utterly perplexed. "But you just…I mean, what, you wanna try it out? I don't think you can get any _cleaner _Lyds…" Dutifully, though, and immediately falling prey to those large, pleading eyes… _she's good at that, what the hell…_ he stabilizes her and guides her to the glass enclosure, only _one _of his hands dipping to do it using her rear.

The shower is a sweeping open thing - one side of it only disconnected by a simple glass panel, the rest of it open against the glass of the exterior windows. It's more of a _viewing area_ with water, to be real, but there are teak benches within it, carved with tiny beetles crawling up and over the sides.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"She definitely used your image without your permission, but I don't think she ever profited off it. Could you imagine the look on her face if you had her served? She would _die."_ Lydia was bubbling at the very idea of it, apparently not at all stung by her parents' abandonment. Swirls of steam emanated from alabaster flesh as she met the open air, nipples hardening, and little bumps raised all over.

"I still have to rinse all this conditioner out of my hair," she explained simply as if he hadn't been the one to comb it so gently through her bountiful locks. "And I'm all oily," she wasn't, not excessively so, but enough to require a good rinse. "If I don't rinse off, my pores will clog and I'll get acne- but I _do _want to try it out." His perverse caress as he ushered her into the luxurious space didn't arouse much more of a reaction than a heated glance over her shoulder, a tiny smirk pulling at her lips. "This isn't even my full routine, Beej. This is me being lazy."

If she were in any place to do so, she would have gone through the bags of her things he procured from the living realm, then placed them properly about her new home. Exfoliate and shave, work leave-in conditioner through her hair, maybe do a face mask or mani-pedi while waiting for her lotion to seep in. Today, she didn't have the patience or energy for all that and didn't think Betelgeuse did either.

"Showers and baths aren't just about getting clean," she related, dropping down with his assistance into the corner bench. It boasted a stunning view of the forest bleeding into tar beach. Carefully, she drew her legs up, extending one to the right and bending the other to the left until her knee touched down on tile. In this position, she was perfectly exposed, nothing hidden from his greedy gaze. He turned a knob and a cascade of perfectly heated water came down from above, rinsing her as she wished and smoothing her gooseflesh. With a single touch and tilt of her head, that wave of raven hair came tumbling down from its knot. Lydia aimed her face upwards, embracing the waterfall. Streams clung to her curling strands, straightening their coils and weighting them down to cover her breasts.

"Sometimes, they can be about relaxation. _Indulgence."_ Despite toting the appearance of a battered woman, at that moment Lydia exuded peace and happiness in almost every aspect of her being. A perfect little smile lifted those bitten, ruddy, satin lips and she melted further under the gentle, cleansing current. "I'm sure you of all people can appreciate that."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse is _more than delighted_ at Lydia's response to his scheme involving her mother. He cackles more than gleefully at the possibility she lays. "Do y'think she'd _really?_ Eeh, I'm savin' that one for later. We can make their lives a _livin' hell,_ you n' me, babes."

Would Lydia make a good poltergeist? Knowing Betelgeuse's luck, she'd just go straight to the pearly gates, no stops in limbo. His lip curls at the idea, and he shelves it in favor of whatever she's saying about some sort of _routine._ "Wait…" he pauses, "…yer sayin' there's like a whole _thing _that's more involved than this?!" he grunts, "How in the hell do _y'get _anywhere?"

The questions were clearly intended as rhetorical, though she's definitely stumped him. "I'd still hump yer brains out with acne, for the record," the ghost adds as she throws that heated look his way, his tongue poking out at her suggestively in return. He helps her down onto the teak bench and as she twists into a position that gives him _the full monte_ he lets go a ragged noise. The only thing that stops him from immediately taking advantage however is his escape to the outside of the shower before she twists that knob, barely managing to get out of the way of the water with a yelp.

Betelgeuse lingers sulkily beyond the glass, leaning against it with a shoulder, as if banished. He hisses as the water douses her, making her expanse of alluring pale skin glisten, the raven-fall of hair coating her breasts like some sort of glorious mer-creature released from the pond. Siren. _Rusalka!_ She tempts him, too, with the idea that this is some sort of _luxury _– and the smile she bids him with, those ruddy lips so perfectly abused, makes him push off the glass and begin to pace slowly, restlessly.

He'd give _almost _anything, suddenly, to be under that spray and sucking down her slick little pussy. _Fuck._

"I dunno Lyds," Betelgeuse taps the tiled wall with an agitated claw, where he's decided to lean sulkily for the time being, diagonal to her beyond the glass, thumb on his other hand hooked at his belt-line. "Bein' filthy is more my comfort level. Corpses belong in the dirt, n' the mud with the insects. Fertilizer."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"No one's forcing you to take a shower," she drawled amusedly as if she were concerned she might have frightened him off. "You can go outside and roll around on the ground with Bubby if you like. Really rub it in. I'm going to stay _right here._ Nice and _clean."_ Her back rolled under the cascade and she sprawled down to the side, laying out right on the bench as if it were a decent place to take a nap. "More room for me." As dryly as it was delivered, this was clearly a teasing jab. The shower could fit just as many people as the bath. There were other knobs and levers and buttons that could be played with, but Lydia was content to relax under the current settings.

Lydia was oblivious to his internal conflict, had no desire to provoke him into placing himself somewhere he was uncomfortable. Her teasing was bred of an inability to understand why he wouldn't want to take advantage of these luxuries. _To each their own._ The glass was beginning to fog up. The window remained wondrously clear, but her view of Betelgeuse was now clouded.

"I guess I should get out soon," she yawned, sounding altogether reluctant. The conditioner and rose oil were rapidly cleansed away and down the drain. Nevertheless, she remained motionless, eyes closed while the searing waterfall beat down on her pliant form.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

With a sneer and a roll of his eyes at her jabs, Betelgeuse pushes off the wall and disappears as the glass fogs over and he can't seem to see Lydia from that position any longer anyway. The girl should be glad he was in a _relatively _serene mood – he did, after all, have everything he wanted. Well. Except one thing, but that was more an immediate sort of want than anything else.

"Y'clearly _want _me in there," the ghoul says upon his return. He's trussed in a towel, now, his suit replaced. "Y'can't play _reverse psychology_ with me babes, I'll always figure it out," he chides her, smug, as he tosses the towel and fully steps past the glass.

He _winces _as he hits the spray of water, and his fluffy, tangled shock of hair quickly turns into a muddy sort of greenish blond mop. It clings to the already balding, thinning top of his head and puddles in curly, frightful droopage along his shoulders. The water does nothing for the filth and mold that clings within it, it really only seems to make it slimy. Betelgeuse gestures, grimly. "Also, I look like this when I'm wet. The world's handsomest drowning victim. D'ya think I could make a case for Baywatch?"

He flexes under the water, wilted hair, thatches of blond hair in abundance under his pits and groin, moss that crawls over most of his body in large psoriatic patches, pale flesh that variates in color all on display as he does so. He was built strong and the wiry muscles of his arms denoted this, despite his lazy habits he had a certain sort of natural muscle tone, though it clearly came from his strange spasmodic existence. His gut was relatively soft but underneath was a firm core of muscle. "C'mon! I'm the next Cody Madison!"

Knowing that character name means that Betelgeuse has _definitely _watched that show. Probably more than once. Probably with a lot of tissue paper nearby, and none of it for crying.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"I don't know what you're talking about," she rejected genuinely, but in a sassy way that came out sounding like a lie. "I wasn't playing any games with you. That's _your _thing. I was completely and totally one-hundred percent indifferent… though I do enjoy your company." A bout of giggles echoed through the enclosed glass chamber at her husband's antics and appearance upon his breach of the water's curtain.

"The handsomest," she agreed once her laughter died down, leaving a bright, teeth-bearing grin behind. "But for the record, I think you would make a terrible lifeguard… I don't know who that is. Is that a character from Baywatch? I've never seen it. It looks boring, like mushy soap opera stuff."

Lydia appeared for all the world content to waste her day away in that shower. "Why did you go back without me?" She finally thought to ask, suspicious of his motives but only slightly concerned. "Adam and Barb are probably upset enough without you _bullying _them." This was less than a slap on the wrist all things considered. The bite in her voice was truly more of a nibble. "Oh yeah, and _what happened_ last night? What was that, the lightning?" Her cheeks flushed dark. "And _after._ Was that us… you?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Suuuuure," comes the ghoul's reply at Lydia's supposed _indifference._ He knows she's being honest, but giving her a hard time is the name of his game. That and, deflecting any kind of desire in this instance to be in that shower. Deflection is another fun game he loves to play, among many others. "Indifferent, like I'll buy that. Nice try Lyds."

She laughs, and he grins, soppily. It widens as she compliments him. See? _Indifference my foot!_ "Nah I'd be a great lifeguard! It ain't hard, all ya gotta do is sit on a real high chair and watch the hot chicks in bikinis a bunch." He settles down on the teak bench next to Lydia, straddling it next to her resting head, his knees on either side. It's a suggestive position, but perhaps unintentional. _Perhaps._ "And yeah, Baywatch. I'd say I'm more like the Hoffster 'xcept his hair's short. Still…" he trails off, and looks down at his wife, surprised. "Boring! Nah, ain't borin'. The girls in that show run down the beach like four times each episode. Pamela Anderson in her prime, nothin' but a lil two piece. Sometimes they swim out n' rescue someone that's _drowning,"_ he makes quote-fingers, and snerks dismissively, "And then when they come out of the water they…." He stops, and stares down at her lasciviously, "….look like you, all glistenin' wet n' stuff, with yer hair all clingin' to yer curves n' lookin' all slippery delicious—…." he trails off, "The show, as it turns out, ain't as hot as the real thing, babes, I gotta admit."

He seems to pull himself back a little bit at her line of questioning, and runs a clawed hand vaguely through his wet hair. It only seems to make it worse in appearance.

"I went back without ya 'cause I didn't wanna wake y'up," he lies, not about to reveal his plan to axe murder her parents, and then adds, "And, y'know. I didn't want them to be angry with ya right off. I hadda test the waters. If they were still real mad, I was just gonna get your things n' keep ya here till they….could handle ….us." that last part, at least, is somewhat truthful as far as the Maitlands were concerned. "Anyway, they do wantcha back home. I'll play you the recording once we're out of the shower."

He grins again, at her last questions, especially as she flushes. "What was _that?"_ He repeats incredulously. "Nothin' really. Watch this."

He points outside of the window, and with a crook of his finger the light suddenly changes. As his claw drags through the air, so does the very odd sources of light – the liminal suns and moons. They move at his command, as does the sky, shifting from whatever constitutes that half night and half day back and forth as he gestures. He makes stupid noises as he does it for a final time, like a scratching record as they flick up and down, downplaying the immense and _otherworldly _power he's been imbued.

"That lightning gave me the sorta powers that Juno's bosses have," he remarks, "I thought it'd happen durin' the wedding, but it seems like the red tape powers that run this stupid place actually wanted _consummation._ I've already extended the boundaries outside yer house for the Maitlands. No sandworms for miles. They just don't know it yet," he grins, wildly mischievous, "Wanna help me toss Adam out of the front door just to watch him freak out on your walkway till he realizes?"

He itches a cheek. "And…yeah, it also gave you some uh, stamina there when we were ah…testin' the tensile strength of the bed. I kinda had to juice you a bit towards the …end, though, so that was me cheatin' yer body a bit. I was uh…._a little worked up."_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lax breaths halted and she strained her abdominal muscles up to watch, utterly still as he so nonchalantly manipulated the flow of time, the migration of the stars themselves just to _show off_ a little bit. It was no exaggeration when he said he lost control. Her frightened, orgasmic musings that he had been possessed by something otherworldly, besides himself, were closer to the mark than initially thought. It was difficult to gaze up at him in awe when he was making those silly noises, and yet this is exactly where Lydia found herself. Would that he loved her ever cease to tilt her world, take everything prosaic and twist it into something surreal and fragile?

He looked exactly like the long-dead drowning victim he described, but worse now with the added knowledge that such terrible power lurked beneath those gritty claws. Closer to some cursed, lusty swamp deity. Jade eyes burned down at her hungrily and she actively avoided shifting to check and see if he had hardened, as his phallus conveniently laid only inches from her head.

"You really did that for them?" She asked in amaze eventually, maintaining stubborn eye contact despite her sudden shyness. They tried not to let it show, but she knew that cabin fever was starting to get to the Maitlands. Rigid, unyielding routines and time-consuming hobbies served as transparent coping mechanisms from the merciless tedium of haunting. _"Thank you," _she breathed, deeply grateful, worshipfully.

Lydia didn't feel worthy of his love. Her body probably couldn't endure another frenzied romp like the one it took the previous night, but she would bear it if he deemed it necessary to dole one out. He definitely looked hungry enough.

"I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you for any of this." She knew that he didn't do these things with any other expectation than that it might make her happy, but this was irrelevant to Lydia. This was about more than quid pro quo. It was about a desire to feel needed, to see that she was fulfilling his needs as abundantly and lovingly as he was fulfilling hers, to earn her place. "Are you _happy,_ Beej? Is there anything I can do to make you happier?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

It wasn't so much of a stretch for Lydia to assume the horrid corpse above her was at _minimum _half-mast. She does that sort of thing to him without meaning to, without intending to, just by being around him. His eyebrows raise a little, and then waggle at her when she thanks him. And then, impossibly, she offered up _whatever would make him happiest._ Initially, he only laughs, because that's a hell of an opening. She's barely in any shape to accept his answer, but he decides to give it anyway. She must be some sort of glutton for punishment, really.

Those glittering eyes squint and go dark, the blackened pits of his eyes looking quite monstrous indeed. Much more like a cursed lust-filled swamp creature. A greedy, rat-like grin splits his lips at her.

"Well, if you helped me throw Adam onta the front walk, that'd make me happy," he starts off, leaning down over her, his fingers crawling revoltingly down her pale shoulders. "But … beyond that," his fingers gently fist into her long black hair, and tug very lightly. "I have some… _ideas…."_

A second pair of hands suddenly find their way into gently smoothing up Lydia's legs and buttocks. They feel _shockingly familiar,_ but her husband couldn't possibly be touching her there. Could he? The hands linger there, massaging at her calmly as if they were _intimately _familiar with her. A pair of the same horrifically guttural chuckles come from two places – one above her, one behind.

"You should be careful 'bout askin' me that question, kitten," says the voice at her legs, her _husband's voice,_ despite him looming over her in front. She can see his lips move to rejoin the other voice with, "Might find yerself in a position of _double jeopardy."_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Oh! _Oh._ This was not what she meant when she made her offer, and had hoped to intone as much, but could hardly have expected any better. She was thinking he might have leaned toward the superficial, requested she wear red more often, maybe show off more skin, something easy and doable. The initial offer was made on a sweet whim, heart and mind on the verge of bursting with affection and wonder. All that love needed an outlet. Those fundamental emotions remained, now spiked with trepidation at the feeling of a _second _pair of clawed hands fondling tenderly around her ass and upper thighs.

Lydia didn't need to look to know that there were arms attached to that voice and hands, as well as a torso, legs, and a head or two. Apparently, a devil's threesome with himself was at the top of his wishlist. It took everything she had to muffle the begging _no, please, not today_ that wanted to form on her lips. Instead, she gulped down the words and shied a curious glance over her shoulder, only to be met with a lascivious wink from _Betelgeuse 2.0_ as he continued to molest her. As if sensing she might panic at the obscene possibilities that _two _of him presented, the original continued petting and stroking her head with both of his large hands. They massaged at the back of her neck and up her nape, slipping easily through the softened, slick strands to ease her into a lulling submission once more.

"I just," she started as she was tugged up carefully by her hair until her neck craned and back arched, "I just want you to be _happy-"_

Just as sweetly and nicely as all of his other touches this morning, he nudged his hips forward just so, bumping the oozing tip of his wet cock against her mouth at the end of her sentence- as if to say _prove it._ Devoted to the cause, she obeyed his nonverbal demands and sucked the straining hunk of flesh in her mouth. Talons tightened pleasantly, just so, and she did her best to untense, remain yielding so that he could guide her head along at his leisure. His doppelganger grunted, grabbing at her more heatedly as if it were his cock she was sucking, and then pulled at her legs, lifting and arranging them until her thighs were straddled across his own upside down, her tummy pressing into the bench.

A second monstrously sized cock slapped wetly, threateningly along the crevice of her ass cheeks while he continued to knead sore muscles at that savoring, indulgent pace. No doubt he would end up using it on her. Lydia only hoped that between the two of them, they could maintain this rare patience and not simply _tear her apart._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The thought of _'this is not what she meant when she made her offer'_ is written all over Lydia's poor face. She looked incredibly concerned, those pretty eyes going big, her tidy little brows knitting in consternation. Betelgeuse knows that look, he's made so many others express it, including both Barb and Adam both. And, like any charlatan, it's going to be his job to _assuage _that look. Never ask a troublemaker what makes him happy. The answer is _always _'more trouble'.

And in duplicate, the ghoul might be more trouble than he's _worth._ However, it seems both Betelgeuses are content to simply rub at her initially, plying her, lulling her indeed back into a relaxed, submissive state. Ease her into the idea. It isn't long before she relaxes, confirming her desire for his happiness, and they proceed with their tryst.

As his cock sinks into that pretty, plush mouth of hers the ghoul groans as if in a state of breathless relief, like a man in a desert offered cool water. "I'm never gonna get tired of that mouth, gorgeous," Betelgeuse huskily sighs as his doppleganger is busily re-arranging her other half into position. He's gentle with her, easing himself slowly and serenely into the heated, soft cavern of her mouth in thrusts that don't insist on going too deep.

The other ghoul, meantime, is a little _less nice_ about things, but seems to be keeping himself mostly under control. For a time, he only rubs against her and massages those legs, the slick length of his already oozing cock sliding up and down the soft flesh of her backside. He teases at her poor abused entrance a few times, solidly watching the expression that forms on the other version of him's face. Egotistical bastard.

"She oughta beg for it," the version behind her remarks.

The hand in Lydia's hair grips a little firmly, as if to insist she remain quite incapacitated from replying. The version of her husband stuffing her replies, instead.

"She's _sore._ Ya gotta be nice to 'er. Ain't the idea that she wants you happy enough?"

"Maybe," comes the greedy, sulky reply, "I don't _wanna _be nice about it. I _wanna _fuck her in the ass."

"_Not yet."_

He grumbles, but it seems, he _remains _nice about it, though the threat lingers. The doppelganger stops his teasing though and angles himself again, pushing the fat head of his cock past the tight, tender flesh of her vaginal passage. They both groan in tandem, the hand in her hair quivers and forgets to keep petting her momentarily, but his eyes burn down at her.

"_Slow,"_ the one stuffing Lydia's mouth insists. The one at her thighs obeys, at least, and very slowly he pushes forward, sinking in deeper, stretching her as slow and as sweetly as he's able. By the sounds the both of them are making, this is _heavenly._ "Fuck…" groans the original, the doppelganger following up with a growled, "You have _no idea_ how good this feels baby…"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

The Betelgeuse at her back was _not _the same as the one who was so gently encouraging her to pleasure him. He was no stranger. She had met him before. This was the same man who pinned her to her bed after their first date when she tested his patience with kissing games, the same one who gagged her, threw her over his knee, and beat her backside until it bruised for the crime of lying to him. _He was dangerous._ He could not be trusted. Luckily, what remained of Betelgeuse's consciousness after splitting the beast away seemed to be the part of him that was calling the shots.

Like siblings, he bickered with himself while clutching at her possessively; the man with affection and intent to protect, the monster with barely subdued hunger, his fragrant desire to _break _her spoken into the open air, unhidden and unashamed. Unsure, she squirmed closer to the safer of the two, grabbing his thighs and sucking more fervently- _showing favor._ Maybe if she was especially nice to him he would continue warding off his lesser half's violent inclinations. If the monster succeeded in convincing him, Lydia would have found herself in a very _precarious _position indeed.

Despite the bath and shower, her insides were still bathed with remnants of his dead seed. He spent the better part of the previous night pumping her full of it. It would likely be several days before all of it was purged from her. Nevertheless, her walls were swollen and inflamed, evidence of the thorough abuse they endured under his pounding cock. They slipped open at the monster's insistence to allow him entrance, slippery with cum, but clenched down just as rigidly as the first time he entered her. Her living warmth was somehow _hotter _now; a fresh flow of blood swelling beneath that private satin flesh, trying to heal what he had done to it.

She whined low around her sweet, attentive husband's muffling girth at the intrusion, cuddling closer between his thighs as though he might save her from this intruder he'd invited. By the third or fourth thrust, however, the warmth of pleasure became more pressing than the burn of pain. Slowly, they worked in time with each other, withdrawing and thrusting and coaxing until they eventually had her sinking onto cock at both ends at a steady rhythm, never empty. Another high, pleading sound vibrated up her throat and around his length as the monster readjusted, scooting closer so that he could hit deeper on every stroke. Deep breaths pushed in and out of her nostrils in droves, hiccuped whenever she managed to suck his fat, dripping head to the back of her throat and it pushed against her airways.

Despite her rapidly easing discomfort, he never slipped. Claws never dug into anything too hard, and both sets of hips stuck to that slow, coaxing pace with dogged determination. Lydia couldn't see any higher than Betelgeuse's lint-stuffed belly-button but wished she could. What sort of expression would he wear? Soft and loving? Intense and burning? Scrunched in concentration? Whatever it was, she hoped it was _happy._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

As Lydia surreptitiously attempts to crawl closer to the Betelgeuse who's cock is currently stuffing her poor battered lips, it causes the ghost to chuckle darkly. She grabs at him, plainly requesting some sort of _protection _from the voice pushing boundaries behind her. It's adorable, really. Despite one being a little more vocal about his intentions, the groaning ghoul looming above her is still Betelgeuse and the protection he offers is…well. He doesn't stop her from trying to swallow him pitifully past her current abilities to do so. He does huff and huskily remark on it to himself, his hips continuing to thrust into her.

"Yer practically makin' her crawl as far as she can go onto my prick," he snrks at his twin, followed by another pleasured growl as she swallows against him. "Quit scarin' 'er."

The ghoul at her back was busy hotly moaning at the sensation of pushing into her slowly, trying his best to remain controlled. She was still pumped full of his seed from the night before, indeed, and the new intrusion of his heavy cock is only adding more of that slippery gunk the deeper he sinks. "Naaah," he breathily murmurs in exchange, cruelly dismissive, "She clenches on daddy's cock _real nice_ when I do…you know I like it when she fights." A finger gently prods her against her soft and exposed pucker. Her reaction makes his voice hitch and he nearly thrusts hard, but manages to keep it to a gentle push. "Aww. You don't like me baby?" he teases, stimulating again but never entering. "Is it because of _thiiiiiis?"_

With a stuttered gasp, her resulting response to his awful prodding causes the other to grunt and look down at poor Lydia past his gut. "Lyds, baby, I'm gonna choke ya if you push any deeper—not that I'm…ah….fuck…complainin'…"

A smug laugh emanates from the Betelgeuse pumping slowly into her hot, wet cunt. "See? Y'like it when she chokes. Should listen to me more often…she's lucky I'm feelin' amenable, really. It's okay babes, I still like ya _just as much,_ even if y'don't like me."

As the two of them ease her into a rhythm between themselves, the evil voice at her back remains surprisingly composed with his actions. She's clearly bruised and tender and everything about her is clearly inciting him, even the idea that she couldn't take any more from him in any other way if she tried. He angles to get deeper, the slow, searing strokes he delivers hot and heavy ones, his hips hitting her somewhat firmly after a time as he builds. Every time she hiccups, or chokes, or tenses she can feel that one quiver and surge…especially as that pleading sound purrs up from her throat.

The two of them operating in tandem were almost imploring, insistent and determined to see to her pleasure even if they both had to wring it from her it seems. The clawed hand at the back of her head resumes its petting, and for a time they're both satiated from their bickering enough to concentrate on keeping her completely pinned between two identical, drooling cocks. They were _happy _alright, if the fitful noises they made between them were any indication.

"I'm _close…_." The one at her back suddenly hisses out a moan. "It's _big…_"

"Not…._yet…_." comes the snarled reply, "Not until _she _does…"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

She _didn't _like him. She did, however, _love _him and recognize him for who he was; her husband. Just the uglier bits, unfiltered. His threats to the last remaining shreds of her virginity were enough to make her tense and flee- as well as circumstances demanded- but not throw in the towel. She could do this. She already _was _doing this. He really wasn't asking for too much. It's not as though this was taking a lot of effort on her part. He was doing all the work, pushing and pulling her onto him at both ends, working her pliant, conquered body to his advantage. If this was all it took to make him happy, Lydia would let him tag team her every day for the rest of her life.

The lingering pain from extended abuse of her internal muscles never quite faded, not completely, but was rapidly overshadowed by a more pleasant burn. At one point, she may have tried to move with him, writhe along with each of their directions and undulate her hips in a satisfying rhythm the way she knew she could, but it proved difficult to set a stable pace. Though they were clearly coordinating with each other, their movements were just out of sync enough to keep her from distributing her affections smoothly and evenly. It proved simpler to remain slack and let his manifestations manipulate as they wished, with the exception of her tongue sliding and writhing around one of his penetrating cocks with determined conviction, cheek muscles sucked taut. After all, he was obviously the one in charge and it was therefore imperative that he remained happy.

_They were waiting for her? Oh God._ "Unghmf!" She cried around his cock in protest at the suggestion, slick, swollen lips somehow managing to split wide enough for an audible syllable to escape.

It wasn't until he voiced it that Lydia realized this rule ran in line with every other physical engagement they had attended together before. She _always _came first. Every. Single. Time. Was this some sort of pride thing? Why did it matter? He could do this _all day_ and had already said and proved as much. Lydia was educated enough in the semantics of sexual relationships to know that it was common for women to go unsatisfied, that the female orgasm was not the goal of copulation and therefore often dismissed as irrelevant. She knew that what she had was _rare _and needed to be _cherished._ So, she couldn't help but feel like an ungrateful brat when the revelation that he wasn't finished until she was finished brought her nothing but dread.

Lydia was beyond comprehending if she was even close or not. The heat from the water, the steam, and the feverish _menage a trois_ were muddling her senses, overwhelming her train of thought. Her cheeks were warm, head fuzzy, not nearly enough oxygen getting in through her flared nostrils. _All she wanted to do was cum for him,_ give him what he wanted and put an end to this succulent torture. At this rate, she would never see the rest of her house.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

This was, amazingly, most of what made Betelgeuse happy. Within the cozy confines of a haze of lust, he found a peace to his feverish thoughts, whatever internal pain plagued him, soothing the agony of eternity. Sex was a reminder of life – and all the pleasant things he could remember that came along with it. He could stop swimming through the dirt, the muck, left to a miserable existence in a grave eating insects like a buffet until his name was beckoned _thrice._

_Death rode on pale horse, and Hell followed behind him._ Fortunately, they still deliver the paper to wherever that is, and that's how all of them wound up in this mess. Whether or not Betelgeuse was _always _a luthario or whether or not it was a _developed _and _curated _personality trait is unclear – but being dead for six hundred years or so will make you a little stir-crazy, especially when your chosen profession is harassing the living sloppily until the _higher-ups _get annoyed enough to keep you from having fun for a while.

Speaking of harassment, poor Lydia was indeed getting her fair share, here. She hadn't intended to rile Betelgeuse but the man was so easily riled. Even rejection riled him, if what the slimy one eagerly humping into her pussy said was any sort of true. She was _trying,_ and he could tell. They were pushing, pulling, insisting on her participation between them both for some time, and she was good to fall prone to their pushy, greedy _taking _of her. However, at her startled protest regarding their insistence that _she _cum first, it makes the one behind her laugh aloud, and the one in front chuckle in amusement.

"Don't worry," the darker one purrs, huskily, "I'll take care of ya baby. Maybe it'll _encourage _ya t'like me better. I promise I won't edge ya till ya scream, _this time."_

A finger gently nestles against her clit and strums it, a heat suddenly pulsing through her poor trembling legs and the center of her thighs. It feeds upon her desires, apparently, just the light touch alone encouraging that low burn to stroke into a burning, aching flame. The sensation is familiar, but different – it's some form of juice, but not as intense as her previous experiences with it.

"That's it," the ghoul groans as he can feel her inner muscles clench and squeeze, starting to milk at him, "_Fuck_ _Lyds…fuck I'm so close…_ hhnnh… I've got my finger on _yer button_ though…"

The version of her husband pushing into her mouth hisses, his cock stiffening against her tongue.

"_Let her…"_ he brokenly chokes, settling his heavy dick as deep as he can go into her mouth, the hand in her hair tightening.

Heat pulses up through her poor exhausted frame, pushing her into an intense climax, causing her to arch and tense fitfully. Both her husbands heatedly capitalize on it, pumping her at both ends before they too succumb to orgasm. That chocolatey flavor explodes onto her tongue, like rich syrup, ropes of the stuff pouring into her mouth. Betelgeuse has to plant a palm flat against the window next to them to remain upright momentarily, and the second version of him has anchored himself as deep as he can go into Lydia's body. She can feel that fat shaft surge within her, filling her yet again with thick seed. The noises they both make are _filthy _and repeated between them, panting, wet growls and gravelly curses.

Before long, after both are fully spent, they withdraw from Lydia's body slowly, uncoupling from her. The Betelgeuse standing sinks back onto the teak bench with a wet _plap._ The other, meanwhile, hunches over her backside as if possessive of it, panting heavily.

"Could go for about five more of those," he remarks, hoarsely.

"Ten, if yer bein' honest, which y'aint," comes the swift, grumbling reply.

"Ten! You don't have the _stamina—"_

"The hell I don't! Wait a fuckin' minute. You…ugh, fuck _off,_ she's _done."_

With a growl, the original Betelgeuse dissipates his doppleganger as if he'd never been there, and a greedy little spark returns to his eyes before fading. His eyes drop to his sweet wife, looking _almost _ashamed of himself.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia was too dizzy with sensation in the comedown from her contrived orgasm to react properly to their dangerous bickering. Fortunately, the greedy one was stifled before he could successfully provoke the original into a contest of stamina. For long moments, she laid prone as fluids leaked from her, too drained even to inch away from the blistering stream exacerbating her overheated state. Salt and chocolate clung to her tongue, sticky residue coating the inside of her throat. Once the heat became to much, she was able to gather enough strength to shift out from under the current, flipping onto her back and breathing in deep lung-fulls of steam. Moving forward, she would have to be less ambiguous when offering favors or else she would find herself the star of a black and white striped orgy.

"That was… uhm…" _Nice _seemed both an inaccurate and dishonest assessment. "Unexpected." There was an apologetic softness to his expression that she appreciated. She inched his way, lifting up to rest her drenched head on his equally sopping thigh. "It shouldn't have been," she disparaged with a sigh, tired lidded eyes gazing up at him, a listless hand extending to toy with the slimy, curling end of a strand of his damp hair curiously. "I don't know why I thought you'd ask me to make you some sort of dead bug souffle. Should've known better."

Smiling softly, she twirled the strand around her finger, pulling him down gently as she leaned up for a sweet, upside down kiss. "Thank you for keeping me company," she whispered against his lips, still fairly surprised that she had been able to tease him into taking a shower with her- filthy as it was. "We'll have to try that again sometime when I have enough energy to not just lay there like a dead fish."

Even Betelgeuse's normally cool flesh was searing from the wet sauna. Lydia could hardly stand it anymore. Pushing away from him, she stood on shaking legs, eyelashes fluttering as the quick movement made her blood rush and vision darken. _"Woah-"_ she faltered, plastering a hand against the window to steady herself and help combat the sudden vertigo. Strangely, focusing on the steep drop to the forest below rather than the gorgeous tile beneath her feet proved more effective.

"It's too _hot,"_ she complained breathily, switching off the spigot. All at once, the water stopped and the room was nothing but a glass cage full of steam. "I want to see the rest of the house- and hear that recording._ I still can't believe you went back without me, you jerk."_

Despite the griping tone, there was a twinkle in her gaze and curve to her lips that said she wasn't too terribly upset at all. The decision was bred of good intentions, after all- _as far as Lydia was aware._ She couldn't earnestly badger him for taking his misguided steps to protect her._ It was sweet._ Really.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

A gentle hand curls into Lydia's hair as her head comes to a rest on his plush thigh, roughened thumb drifting to stroke at her flushed cheek. "Sorry Lyds, sometimes I get uh…'lil ahead of m'self. Well, in this case _across _from m'self," he admits, with a half-laugh, and then adds at the mention of soufflé, "Well, I mean, _a lotta things_ make me happy, babes. But first n' foremost is bein' able to rock your world."

Whether or not he actually rocked it this time is a matter of opinion, but considering she can't move and is currently playing with the slippery, wet curly hair between his thighs is indicator enough for the egotistical maniac. That being said, he knows he also probably pushed her a _little far_ this time. "Gotta admit though, _soufflé de la terrior insectes_ sounds real interestin'. I wouldn't turn that down either…."

He appears relatively surprised as she pulls him in close for such a sweet kiss. His filthy lips curl into a smile of their own, and he snickers softly at her assessment of her performance. "Aw babes," he murmurs in exchange, breathily against Lydia's lips, "Y'sell yerself short. I've fucked some dead fish in my time, and that wasn't even _close._ I'm pretty sure the closest I'll ever get to heaven is between those thighs of yers."

Pleased, however, that she seems to approve, he is relieved when they make their exit from the shower. He gestures as she regains the blood pressure to her head, as if ready to leap and catch her from falling, but she manages to stabilize herself against the window. Nonetheless, her husband is quick to supplant himself behind her just in case. If he could feel extremes of hot or cold any longer, he'd probably agree with her.

He catches her smile as she chides him, and he laughs. "You know me babes…" is all he offers, as he nabs a towel for her as they pass out of the chamber of steam and wraps her into it in a sudden affectionate gesture, "Couldn't resist. I think you deserve t'see the rest of your house. I've rattled yer bones long enough."

He agrees regarding the recording as well. Indeed, he seems particularly agreeable, and from his lips he repeats exactly what they said in their voices, creepily – to the letter. He even imitates their facial expressions somewhat, except mockingly exaggerated. As he and Lydia pass into the bedroom again, the cool Neitherworldian air embraces her.

"….and also, we _love _Betelgeuse and think he's just _the best,"_ he tacks on at the end. He looks at her soberly, and then his face splits into a mischievous grin. "…Alright, they didn't say that last one," he snickers.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia walked the perimeter of the towering bedroom as he voiced his "recording", listening, idly tracing nick-nacks and architecture as they caught her interest._ "That's _**our **_daughter," _Mr. Maitland's voice announced with fierce finality, giving Lydia pause as she strolled. A rare fracture that wasn't brought about by pain splintered across her heart. The close, loving relationship she shared with the Maitlands was an unspoken one, up until now. They didn't need labels. Why make things awkward with terms like mom and dad when "Adam" and "Barb" worked just fine? Nevermind that she had more than once had to stifle a _"goodnight mama" _whenever Mrs. Maitland brushed a motherly kiss across her forehead. They got what they needed from one another just fine without defining things- and yet here it was. A definition that left no room for argument.

Shortly after Adam made his bold declaration, Barbara widened the crack in her heart further, relaying that they didn't blame Lydia for forcing the poltergeist upon them. From the woman's tone, she could tell that Mrs. Maitland hardly understood her motivations, but she was _trying._ They were willing to_ try._ It was more than Lydia could have asked from them.

Betelgeuse's creative ending to the recounting earned him a crooked smile and a half-glare that said _stop that._ "Four days…" she mumbled, brows furrowed. "If I've only been gone four days, then I only missed two days of school." Returning to her trek around the circle of the room, she hugged the towel closer. "That's not that bad. I can make up two days. You gave me bad information, Beej," she accused lightheartedly, opening a pair of French doors she'd yet to trespass. Her jaw dropped. She nearly lost grip of her towel. The rate of her heart began to accelerate once more, blood rushing to the pale apples of her cheeks in sheer excitement.

All darkness, angst, and brooding aside, Lydia was still at the very heart of her being a _girly girl._ She liked makeup and dresses, indulged in silly romantic fantasies, and had hosted her _fair share_ of tea parties for imaginary friends as a child. This being noted, what laid before her was enough to send any femme into a shrieking, girlish fit of madness. Somehow, she was able to maintain her composure.

Clothes. This was not a walk-in closet. That was too pedestrian a phrase. It was a lounge. Several cushy loveseats made up the seating area, as well as a single luxurious recliner. It was aimed at the very center of the room, as though whoever sat there would be on the receiving end of a fashion show. A dim, yet adequately bright chandelier cast a flattering glow about the space. The closeted walls were fully stocked and arranged by both season and color. _Oh, the colors._ There was black, of course, from void-like obsidians to ashing, pale onyxes. Besides her signature shade, there were also bloody crimsons, rich plums, foresting emeralds, and fabrics that changed depth and hue depending on the angle from which they were viewed.

Directly across from the entrance and tucked between wall length mirrors sat an exact replica of her mother's vanity. When the drawers were opened, she spotted a pair of devil horns on a ribbon and found that the contents were identical as well, as though her beloved antique heirloom had been plucked from the ether so that it might exist in two places at once.

"_Beej," _she gasped, clutching her heart, whipping around to face him,_ "how- I- what-"_ The girl had lost her faculties. It wasn't clear if she was on the verge of crying, screaming, or passing out. How dare that bastard lie to her face like that. _He was a God-_ no if's, and's, but's, or demi's about it. "If I didn't think it might kill me," she finally was able to string a coherent sentence together, gaze burning across the room and into his, "I'd climb on top of you and fuck you until my name was the only word that made sense."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The poltergeist shrugged vaguely at her chastisement on giving her bad information. "Two, four. Split the difference, it's half the same!" Days meant little to the ghost. The paper was the only thing that helped him keep track half the time, and that's only _when _they deigned to deliver it. Besides, if he told her more days she missed as a _lie,_ she'd be much happier when she realized it was any less than the number he'd spat out initially. Now two days _wasn't so bad._

Upon opening the large French doors, the ghoul who was lingering further from her as she wandered comes up behind. He's dry and dressed, as if he'd never been in the shower though there's a distinct scent of petrichor from him now. As if he was _the most bored and casual individual on earth_ he remarks, "Oh yeah. I had Ginger make you a few things 'cause I liked that …spiderweb number. Needed a whole big closet to keep it all in, so."

He lights a cigarette, unable to keep a _distinctly _smug smile off his lips after Lydia fully whips around to face him. His heart clogs into his throat in a way that's distinctly horrible and new – as if her happiness was suddenly very much his own. She looks _heart-stoppingly _happy. She's practically glowing, actually, and the words that drop from her lips make his eyebrows shoot to the top of his head.

"Woah, Lyds. If I didn't know any better," he chews the end of his cigarette and leans down into her ear with a thick voice, "I'd say you were turnin' into some kinda _pervert."_

Betelgeuse pecks Lydia's cheek rapidly and moves away from her then to avoid any subsequent physical retaliation, sauntering back across the room. "I'm keepin' that one as an IOU, though. I'm glad ya like it. Half of it's for _me _to watch ya get naked or put on sexy stuff, 's why that cute little lounger's in it. I installed a couple more things in this place for ya. You like the closet, just wait till you see what the second tower's got in it. That whole place is practically yours entirely."

Is that excitement hinging his voice?

"Put ….somethin' pretty on for me, kitten, and I'll take you over there."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia filtered through several dresses in the Spring section before settling on a dark green number that complimented her husband's coloring, as well as drawing out the streaks of toffee in her own eyes. It was similar in style to her wedding dress, but made of a slightly heavier material and boasted long sleeves instead of straps. Betelgeuse lurked in the recliner while she dressed, arms folded behind his head, smirking in self-satisfaction. The girl was beyond deriving embarrassment from her own nudity, despite the filthy little noises he made when she dropped her towel.

Lydia couldn't recall the last time she'd worn green, or if she even ever had. It suited her. Her husband certainly approved judging by the expression he bore; lustful and searing.

"Pretty enough for you?" She bantered, presenting herself with a twirl. "I'll have to invite Jacques and Ginger over for dinner sometime. She really outdid herself. You paid her, right? She didn't just make all this for _free?"_ Lydia already felt beyond indebted to her dastardly husband. Though the kindly spider wasn't likely to hold anything over her head, she didn't like the idea of taking advantage of such kindness and generosity.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Always," the ghost replies very seriously, his green eyes roving over Lydia like he _hadn't _just left her stuffed from both ends and barely walking from the night prior. His lust was something of a bottomless well, and there would never be a moment where he wouldn't appreciate his wife's good looks…or take full advantage of them.

Indeed, Ginger had outdone herself. Despite always dismissing the spider's innate talents multiple times in the past as 'rags made outta butt floss', she had at least agreed to do this for _Lydia _\- certainly not Betelgeuse. The dress clung and draped in all the right places, the slit up the side revealing Lydia's very pretty leg, and eyeing it all the way up the ghoul chews happily on the end of his cigarette."Huhn?" he eventually muttered distractedly about dinner and payment. "Yeah yeah. It was an even exchange."

His voice is dismissive. Whatever arrangement they had for this was between them, and it was impossible to tell to what lengths Betelgeuse had gone to procure her this closet. Considering the often _strained _relationship between the two, it was most likely something fairly elaborate and definitely something that would wound his pride.

In the rich green dress, Lydia looked much less like the shy daughter of Edgar Allen Poe and much more like a classy broad he'd meet on the strip of Vegas, or at some wealthy land-owner's estate in the vineyard. Pushing out of the recliner, he offers his arm to her in true gentleman style as if in response, triggered by the visual. "Shall we?"

Once the two of them set off, he leads her down several winding staircases and up two more, the strange layout of the place becoming quite clear. Eventually, stone staircases lead to wood hallways that creak, and finally out into a round tower that is nothing but light. Windows case the outside high up in this cistern like tower. On the inside of the clean white walls, though, is practically a shrine to Lydia herself. It is like the closet in a similar way but _much more personal_ \- this is a gallery space, that's all anyone can call it really. Betelgeuse has somehow figured out how to develop her photos - and so he has. Carefully selected from both her Polaroid and computer - that go up the walls of this rotunda by hundreds of feet, framed and hung with care. Most of the frames have no complete right angles, giving it all a very peculiarly quirky look.

Her Polaroid is also hung here as if waiting for her, by a sign on the far wall that reads "darkroom" and points downwards to trap door in the floor embellished by a skeleton's arm gesturing in the proper direction.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Beej," she gasped upon sighting the gallery, feeling like a broken record. Her knees went weak and the grasp on his arm grew tight. It was a _museum,_ a testament to her work alone. Velvet rope separated the exhibit from the rest of the room, as though her photographs were _precious, valuable art_ that need not be touched or smudged by plebeians. Heart in her throat, she detached from his arm to drift limpingly to the center of the room and meticulously scan each photo. Of course, there was the damning photograph of the Maitlands in those sheets that cause so much trouble a few years back. Beyond that, there were landscapes of Winter River at twilight, the New York City skyline, various sprawling cemeteries, etc. Eventually, the images turned topsy-turvy, marking her introduction to the Neitherworld.

Every single photo she had ever deemed good enough to not immediately trash hung before her rebelliously as if daring her to say they didn't belong. Lydia had dreamed that her photographs might hang in a gallery someday, but they were just that. _Dreams._ Not anymore. Beyond words, she approached the wall, extending a shaking hand toward one of the frames as if to touch it, make sure it was _real._ The limb cowered halfway across the velvet rope and snapped across her mouth, muffling the sudden emotional sob that wanted to escape. Her cheeks were wet. When had she started crying? She didn't know.

Unable to stare at the moving sight anymore for fear of breaking into embarrassing wails, she flipped her attention to the trapdoor, but her legs wouldn't move. Undoubtedly, a darkroom beyond her wildest dreams lay beneath that hatch, just waiting for her to break it in. If she touched anything, this precious fantasy might shatter. It was all much too much. It _all _was, in truth, but this especially. If anything could be said about Betelgeuse, it was that he didn't do anything in halves.

Abruptly, it seemed a very real possibility that she had lost her mind. That every day spent in Winter River and forward was nothing more than a creation of her ravaged imagination. Maybe she was still in that psyche ward, strapped down to that table while hundreds of volts of electricity coursed through her brain. Was it possible that she formulated Adam, Barb, and her husband in an attempt to cope? Could it be that this wasn't an illusion of Betelgeuse's, but a complex, involved Utopia of her own making? Disoriented and overwhelmed, she trembled, looking about like a lost child until she once more met her husband's eyes.

"Betelgeuse," she began, eyes large, sounding very small, "is this _real?"_ Well aware that she couldn't trust the answer, she continued, desperate for the grounding comfort it would provide nonetheless. _"Am I crazy?"_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse would be more nervous about this if he hadn't been carefully planning it for a while. He could be just as beneficial as he could be completely detrimental and it was entirely a monkey's paw as to which was going to be which at the moment. For now, it seemed he was using his powers entirely for good, as if to make up for his lousy method of courting and marriage. See? He can be _romantic._

He leans in the doorframe, arms folded, smoking. She had gone quite silent at first, causing his brow to wrinkle just slightly in consternation, but eventually she turns to him with _that look_ his lips twitch into a little smile. At her question, he bursts into a short fit of laughter, pushing off the wall and stepping into the space with her. In the bright light he is pale again, looking truly corpselike. As the light catches his eyes, the jade sparkles in them – rarely seen from within blackened pits of bruised kohl surrounding them.

"Yeah it's real baby," he remarks, looking _far too pleased_ with himself, "Any time ya get real mad with me, like I've _really _pissed you off, just think of this place and how much I love you. Consider it _insurance."_

He's teasing, of course, unable to put nearly anything into terms that aren't peculiarly manipulative and rotten. _A whole house for emotional blackmail!_ It is, at least, grounding. His romance still needs some work it seems. He gathers her in for a strong hug, though, that indicates his feelings better. "It's you an' me against this whole stupid life n' death thing, babes. If yer crazy, it's the best kind."


	16. The Big Bad Wolf

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia never strayed far from his side as he swept her through the rest of the house, grabbing hold of his hand like a wary child in a crowded mall. No discovery was as earth-shattering as the gallery, but each room and feature of her new home dazzled nonetheless. The sparkling pool in the backyard- _complete with a fully stocked bar, diving board, and water slide-_ was almost enough to entice her to stay another night. As much as Lydia loved to swim, it was not a hobby she could easily partake in thanks to her heliophobic flesh. Nevertheless, her absence had drawn on long enough.

"Thank you," she murmured against his lips again, a wealth of gratitude and love still spilling out of her. Pale arms snaked around his neck, feet hovering several inches from the ground as he held her aloft in her bedroom- the one in the living realm. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she reiterated in an affectionate rush, punctuating each one with a sweet kiss. "I wish you could stay," she hushed before they lost themselves to another dizzying lock of lips and tongue.

"But…" Neither Maitland was aware of her return yet. The sun was still up, but it wouldn't be for long. According to her digital clock, she had school tomorrow, and probably a hellish amount of classwork to catch up on. "I don't think you should be here when I talk to Adam and Barb. It'll just… make things difficult." She hoped he wasn't insulted by her unfortunately accurate assessment. "I've probably kept you away from work long enough, anyway."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse happily, and slowly twirls with Lydia back in her bedroom, rising up to float with her in a haze. Internally, he was drunkenly euphoric, blissfully content to make out with her for as long as she'd have him. She's safely wrapped in his arms as they both hover above the floor together and her breathless thanking left him buzzing, especially when punctuated by her lips. "I wish I could too baby," he mutters against her mouth before they intertwine again, and he makes throaty, pleasant noises into her mouth.

_Satan's tits,_ and what a _mouth it was!_ He doesn't think he'll ever tire of her soft velvet lips, the natural warmth that radiates from them, her gentle but eager tongue as it rides his own. By the time she pulls back again he's panting, nuzzling desirously into her hair, a soft growl of frustration rumbling into the delicate cusp of her ear.

"I know," he replies breathily regarding Adam and Barb. _She was right_ – and she deserved to talk to them alone. He also knew she needed a break from him, probably, despite every part of him screaming out for more of her, just to hold or touch her. "You have a way of bein' real convincin' when you want, Lyds. Just like me. I admire that in a girl." He winks then, appreciatively.

_With good reason they wouldn't listen to him_ would be the sane person's conception of that, but to Betelgeuse it was certainly despite all his favors. He did his job, didn't he? Saved them from an exorcism too? And what did he get in return…nothing but ire. _Everyone's a critic._

Gently, he settles them both back onto the floor, reluctant to be the first to pull away. "I'm probably gonna have to help the Patels out pretty soon, yeah. They've been tryin' t'reach me. Somethin' about tryin' to possess a cake and another thing about tryin' to come up from the toilet n' gettin' flushed back down. I thought yer ghost parents were bad, these kids are worse."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Don't be too hard on them," she pled on behalf of the Patels as her feet gently returned to the ground, once more bound by gravity. "Some people just aren't made for scaring." She was just as hesitant to part as he was, leaving her uncoiled arms to rest on his shoulders rather than disengaging completely. "If everyone was as good as you, you'd be out of a job." His ego, monstrous and self-fed as it was, had earned a little stroking.

"I'm going to miss you," she conveyed with yet another kiss, swallowing the urge to say _fuck it, fuck all of this, take me back _**home**_, Beej._ Lydia simply wasn't designed for that kind of selfishness. "I'll call you back Friday night and we can spend the weekend together again, okay?"

They indulged in one last heated make-out session before he disappeared right out from her arms in a whisp of smoke, leaving her to grasp at nothing. _"Love ya,"_ a secret breeze meant only for her whispered as the last of him dissipated, leaving the acrid scent of his brand of tobacco behind. "I love you, too."

Whether or not the redundant declaration met his ears, Lydia did not know. It was time to attend to other matters. Very softly, she pushed her door open, not wishing to alert them to her presence just yet. Even after hearing it from the horse's mouth, it was still difficult to accept that Adam and Barbara weren't at least a _little_ upset with her. Still garbed in her emerald velveteen gown, Lydia tip-toed down the hall, straining her ears so that she might discern which area of the house they were in. Wherever they were, they weren't talking. It was eerily quiet. She stopped at the top of the stairs, well aware that to step on them would make the floorboards creak and rob her of her advantageous position.

_Where were they?_

There was no anticipating what happened next. Without any warning whatsoever, the door to Lydia's immediate right- the master bedroom- swung open. Startled, Lydia spun around, released a reflexive scream of surprise, lost her footing on the long train of her dress, and would have taken a potentially fatal tumble down the stairs were it not for the interference of Barbara Maitland. She reached as Lydia fell, but wasn't able to grab her in time. No matter. The desire was enough. Lydia's neck never hit wood. Instead, she levitated at a diagonal angle just out of Mrs. Maitland's reach, hanging on the cusp of death.

The woman's face was locked in abject horror, her spirit stuff frozen as though afraid that if she moved, she would lose this impulsive hold of her power– and Lydia in the process. Carefully, she beckoned her outreached arm, twirling her wrist as though to reel Lydia in. Whatever she was doing, it worked. Very slowly, she was lifted back upright and secure. Lydia was impressed. Their abilities were usually unpredictable and strongly tied to their emotions. Rarely were they able to actually do something they were setting out to do. The girl wasn't on her feet for more than a second before she found herself swept into a tight, motherly embrace.

"_Adam,"_ Barbara cried, into the top of Lydia's head, _"she's home! Lydia's home! He brought her back!"_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse chuckles, pleased at Lydia's attempts to stroke his ego. "Well, I am the ghost with the most babes. It'd be easier if I could just kill the folks in the Patel's house, but ah—" he gently taps her sternum with a finger, "You an' I have an agreement. This job'll be over soon anyway, and then I can get right back t'haunting you."

He makes a guttural noise into the kiss she subsequently delivers, his breath shivery as it exits loudly through his nose. Her expressions of affection and desire for him were like a moth to a flame, and every single molecule of his being wanted to spirit her back to the Neitherworld – probably just as much as she wanted to go, unbeknownst to him. "Weekend's good," he grunts, easily accepting Lydia's terms but greedily desiring more. She's earned time with the Maitlands, and time back to her regular life. If she soothed the Maitlands well enough, he could roam the house freely, which would be beneficial. He could do it right this very second but Lydia would be upset…and Betelgeuse is only interested in making her upset on his terms at this point.

After consuming her delicious lips in a final hot n' heavy kissing bout, the ghoul dissipates in her arms. It was the only way to do it – any longer and he'd be tempted to push further, or hang on, or stick around. In reality, he was sticking around, just invisibly, to make sure he didn't have to whisk Lydia back to their home. Their home. He liked that. Too much. He wanted to have her over every surface of that place…twice. _Later._

His wife exited her bedroom, and the ghost spent a few minutes rooting around her room for any further evidence of any fap-diaries he could snoop into. It isn't until he hears Lydia's startled scream that he hustles out from her bedroom like a flash, still out of sight, startled by the noise. He reaches the scene just long enough to see Barb holding Lydia straight out over the staircase levitating her, having stopped her right before a horrific tumble. What the hell?! Apparently, the Maitlands could only be frightening entirely unintentionally, and only through startling boo-scares. Barbara reels poor surprised Lydia back to safety, and the ghoul is relieved. The possibility of Lydia dying was everywhere and normally, that didn't phase the ghost in the slightest. But this made his chest seize, and he clutches at his shirt vaguely where his heart is, though it continues to never beat. _Phew. He leaves his girl alone for five minutes…_

As Barb finally embraces her and calls out to Adam, he turns just in time to press himself against the wall of the hallway as the man charges past. Adam comes thundering down the attic stairs and rushes to them both, his face glowing. "Oh Lydia…we were so worried," he gushes, "We didn't think—" he cuts himself off there, unable to delve into what they thought. He inspects her through his glasses, pushing fingers gently against the girls' face as if checking her over. "We're so glad you're home. He didn't…._do anything_ to you, did he?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Silly questions only begot silly answers. Lydia stumbled over answering Adam, verbal confirmation not actually necessary considering the blooming of hickeys and love bites exposed by the daring neckline of her gown. Barbara was quick to come to her rescue, changing the subject, offering up her talents in the kitchen as unspoken penance for the near-death experience. Just as eager to avoid talking about her sex life and mouth watering at the prospect of some of Mrs. Maitland's masterful cooking, Lydia allowed herself to be swept down to the first floor and plied with parental love. For a while, they were content to dance around the elephant in the room; ask about school, how things had been in their absence, and other humdrum small talk.

However, a compliment to her dress brought more pressing matters into sharp focus. "That's a lovely color on you," Barbara had praised, wisely omitting that it was nice to see Lydia in something other than black. Lydia's response, a nonchalant thank you followed by "Beej bought it for me," drew a hush over the table. She sunk lower into her chair, appetite shrinking.

"Sweetheart," Mrs. Maitland began uneasily after the silence became too much, "is he… I mean to say… is this… something that you want? He's not… _making_ you do anything… is he?"

"_Absolutely not,"_ Lydia rejected passionately, face the color of a tomato. Despite her embarrassment, she sat up straighter in her chair for the sake of defending the sanctity of her marriage. "He would _never_. You guys just don't know him like I do. He's sweet to me…" The scowl on Adam's face deepened. Lydia flinched at the sight of it and Barbara placed a hand on her husband's arm in an attempt to calm his ire. They wouldn't get anywhere if they pushed the matter- if there was even anywhere to get. "If you're worried that he's going to do something bad, don't. He and I have an understanding."

That kind of phrasing did nothing to ease their misgivings. "What kind of understanding?" Adam almost growled out, a shadow falling over his face.

"He hurts anyone and I put him right back," Lydia informed matter-of-factly, firm with this resolution. Trinkets and creature comforts would not distract from her rigid moral code. Should Betelgeuse find himself tempted to slake his bloodier lusts, she would still be forced to put him in "time-out" as it were. Hopefully, he wouldn't force her hand.

There was a collective breath of relief between both Maitlands. "You can do that?" Barbara sighed, shoulders releasing tension. "Thank God. He was talking like he was out for good and could do whatever he wanted." That Lydia needed to make such a deal in the first place stirred a whole new slew of questions, but for the moment Adam and Barbara seemed appeased. Their daughter was home. She was safe, relatively unharmed, and keeping the boogeyman under tight lock and key. For the time being, all was well with the world.

"Are you sure?" Barbara still deigned to whisper later that night, tucking her into bed like a proper mother.

"I'm sure," Lydia answered, the corners of her mouth lifted in a serene smile that worked to abate some of the Maitland woman's lingering grief._ "Goodnight, mama." _

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

They think he's bribin' her, do they? Well. It isn't exactly far off, but Betelgeuse's intentions are truly to make Lydia happy first and foremost. They should be worried, still, though. As Lydia claims he won't get up to anything _bad_, he scowls invisibly. He may be in love, but he's not soft – and the Maitlands, those deadbeats, are still proving to be a thorn in his side.

He's almost tempted to reveal himself as he lurks, listening in on their conversation, especially as Barb goes on in relief about how he's free but controlled. He snorts internally. He's happy about Lydia's confidence in him, but after a time he hauls himself away before she's put to bed. He's angry for reasons he cannot place, and the scowl that is affixed permanently on his features doesn't abate as he heads back through her mirror.

He busies himself with the Patels, and when he tires of that and they send him away for pushing too far he returns to the lighthouse. He throws himself into a summoned armchair inside Lydia's gallery, where it's pleasantly dark and the moonlight spills down the walls. He smokes, summons a beer and nabs a roach as it scuttles across the tidy white floor, chewing it thoughtfully. _Who was in charge here? Did it matter?_ Lydia wasn't interested in double-crossing him. Everything she had insofar said and done was entirely trustworthy. It wasn't Lydia he was worried about. So what was it? That the world would somehow finally convince her that he was wrong for her? _It wasn't untrue._ But she was _his_ and his alone.

His claws dug into the armchair, scraping the leather. Eventually, his thoughts drifted to how he left his wife. Enamored, missing him. Her tongue in his mouth. Dirty fingers drift to the waistband of his pants, and with a grumble to himself that echoes in the empty space, he goes about relieving some of the tension she left with him. Fingers slip past the hem and he leans back, but inevitably he doesn't fully complete his task. He falls asleep mid-way, beer dangling between his fingers on the floor, hand jammed down the front of his pants in true slob fashion.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Rather than calling Betelgeuse back at the end of the day Friday, like she said she was going to do, Lydia devised a different, more romantic plan. Chores done, all belated school work finished, and a begrudging Adam and Barbara informed of her plans, Lydia packed up her basket of goodies and sat before her vanity, frowning considerately. He said she could reach the lighthouse this way… but how? First, she tried closing her eyes and thinking very hard about where she wanted to go; pictured the creeping forests, the bubbling ocean and haunted desert, all illuminated by the glorious beacon that was her home. It didn't work. With an impatient pout, Lydia resorted to whining.

"Come on," she griped, slapping the surface of the mirror lightly as if to beat it into cooperation. "Work, you stupid thing. I want to go _home_."

She said the magic word. The image reflected on the looking glass twisted into a swirling pool of vibrant colors, brightening and darkening and reshaping until she was looking at the inside of her wardrobe lounge. Giddy at the show of abnormality after so many days of uniformity, Lydia spared no time crawling through the portal in a most undignified manner. Luckily, the vanity was sturdy and supported her weight faithfully. Immediately, she set to work picking an outfit. The bodysuit was hanging up next to a selection of intricately woven ponchos, including the spiderweb number Betelgeuse had more than once commented on though he'd only ever seen pictures.

_If he liked it so much, he should really be given an opportunity to see it properly._ After dressing, she took time to apply makeup; a black upper lip and a red bottom- _a new look she was experimenting with-_ an expertly drawn cat eye, and layered various shades of violet blended over her lids. Incandescent particles dusted the high lines of her cheekbones, further sharpening her soft features. Lastly, her hair was left down, but after a moment's hesitation, she dared to don the pair of horns that marked her as an _honorary Dante's Girl._

After all, Lydia was looking to get _laid_. Why beat around the bush? Hopefully, he could restrain himself long enough to let her give him his presents.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse was busying himself in the lighthouse basement slurping leggy house centipedes up like noodles when Lydia entered through the portal. He knew she had done it – he had magically linked himself to the mirror so it would tell him if anyone entered through it. It was _her_ energy, he could feel it. A thrill ran up his spine – he had missed his darling wife. She said she would _call him_ though. Frowning suspiciously, he made his way up the stairs slowly while floating invisibly at first. Maybe he could startle her. That might be fun.

He arrives on the first floor just in time to see Lydia, horns and all, traipsing happily towards the front door with a basket. She was dressed in that red cobweb poncho and for some reason, it tickled Betelgeuse's brain. Maybe that's what she wore when she was looking for trouble, but what an outfit it was. She was leaving the house without him, and she gave one last glance out behind her shoulder. That's when he caught the way she looked – the black and red lips, the dusky purple eye-shadow, the rich black eyelash. She was a dream. A vision. The ghost is left thoroughly without a thought in his mind for a moment.

Then she turns and disappears through the door. _Interesting_.

_Where was she going? To see someone?_

There wasn't a soul for miles, but that didn't eliminate the possibility altogether. Something evil and fierce tangled through Betelgeuse's brain and he follows after her in an instant. Lydia makes for the woods, and he's hot on her heels, curious, slipping through the trees. She isn't moving particularly quickly, and she stops to look wonderingly at various portions of the landscape. _What in all hell is she doing?_

Bubby faithfully follows her, having plodded sleepily behind her when she exited the lighthouse. Off in the distance, there's a low, meandering howl that makes the animal perk his ears. It makes Betelgeuse listen too, but Lydia doesn't seem to have heard the call. She's inspecting a peculiarly shaped cluster of deaths-head mushroom beneath her feet. Bubby starts up a growl, and Betelgeuse glares down at him. Slipping next to the dog's ear, he gives him clear instructions to head home.

Bubby is accustomed to his master addressing him thus, and knowing the sound of his voice and the smell of him even when he can't see him, turns to go back towards the lighthouse – reluctantly. He whines low, clearly very perturbed at the idea of leaving his mistress after hearing _that noise_. Betelgeuse shoos him impatiently. With a hard snort, the dog finally makes his exit, grumpily trotting away and leaving Lydia fully alone. Lydia walks on, continuing her travels without looking for him. The forest gets darker and thicker, but she seems to be continuing to determinedly navigate it. Betelgeuse is fascinated. _Where in the world does she think she's going? There must be someone to meet her._

There's a very sudden, loud and low snarl from the darkness of a thicket to Lydia's direct right as she climbs over a large fallen twisted tree. Glittering white eyes abruptly seem to surround her within the shadows that edge her location, and a very large, very hairy shadow steps towards her with a low, threatening rumble. The shadow is huge, at least eight feet and as it pushes through agonizingly slowly into a beam of light that cascades through the trees it becomes fully obvious as to _what_ this thing is.

_Werewolves._

A black maw is pulled back in a grimace of white teeth. Unfriendly, enormous white teeth. An enormous, clawed hand covered in fur swipes at Lydia, barely missing her and hitting the log she just proceeded over instead.

_RUN._

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

The forest only grew denser and darker the further she trudged on. Lydia found it lovely, just as she had the last time she traipsed these woods, but she hadn't quite found the spot yet. There was one clearing that seemed promising, but it still didn't quite hit all the marks for her.

"Bubby?" She called to the shadows behind her once she realized the heavy thud of his paws hitting dirt wasn't echoing in her wake. _Silence_. He must have been off hunting, then. No matter. Lydia had the utmost faith in her precious boy, not that she was at all scared of whatever might have been lurking- _not the way she should have been._ With lethal flippancy, she ambled unguarded through thickets and foliage. If Bubby wasn't interested in keeping her company on her walk, her own voice would have to do. A pleasant hum vibrated on her lips as she walked, eventually finding words.

"_Oh, all the money that e'er I spent,  
__I spent it in good company,  
__And all the harm that e'er I've done,  
__Alas, it was to none but me…"_

The bittersweet lyrics, meant to be sung brightly, came out melancholic on her tongue, the notes slow and savored as they bounced and reverberated to echo all around her. Her voice hitched over the end of the chorus as she climbed over a decrepit, fallen tree. It's a miracle the ancient thing didn't collapse under her weight. However, the sound of a vicious snarl from a nearby underbrush halted the breath of air that would have brought on the next verse. Lydia froze. Very slowly, a _massive, hulking_ beast stepped forward, boldly revealing itself as the source of the sound.

"Hello," she managed to whisper, eyes large, suddenly shy. The rumbling growl never ceased as she gathered herself, pulling fully off of the log and brushing bits of bark from her person. "Did I… Am I trespassing…?"

The furry monstrosity wasn't interested in having a dialogue. He swiped forward half-heartedly, almost reaching her but not- as if testing. Lydia didn't disappoint. She jumped back, grip on her basket painfully tight. For an eternity, neither monster nor girl moved, locked in a tense staring contest. Then, she fled. It wasn't a conscious decision. Survival instincts kicked in and she was gone, weaving through the labyrinthine maze, leaping obstacles as they came into her path.

It wasn't just the one chasing behind her, either. There were more- how many, she didn't know. The seconds it would have taken to check could mean the difference between life and death- _oh God, she was going to die._ She was going to die out here in these woods, alone. Betelgeuse would never get his gifts. He wouldn't even know what happened to her. She would just be _gone_ and he would be alone and angry again.

**Betelgeuse!** _She could call for him!_ "Betel-" she huffed, losing the word as a suspicious rustle forced her to change directions rapidly. "B-" she didn't even make it to the second syllable this time. There was nowhere to run. She was surrounded. Had she not been burdened by panic, she might have noted that the clearing _they led her to_ was exactly the kind she'd been searching for. Perfect for a picnic, and then some.

There were five of them. She could see them clearly under the perpetual lunar light. A bark issued from the largest in her direction, making her knees buckle and drop her right to the ground. They circled, sniffing and growling and snarling._ "Betelgeuse!" _She shrieked as one started for her, only for the largest to tackle it to the ground before it could make contact.

…

_What? _Were they… were they _fighting_ over her? They were. They were fighting for the right to eat her and this was almost enough to make her retch up the sandwich she ate for lunch. _"Betelgeuse,"_ she whimpered, curling in on herself, convinced of her demise. Over and over again she cried for him, losing hope with each breath. _"Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Oh Beej, pleeaase don't leave me here, pleease…"_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The wolves were _thrilled_, it seemed to be chasing Lydia down. They snap at her heels, growl, snarl and bite at each other as they surge behind her into bramble and brush and past muddy stretches of forest. Eventually, they seem to tire of this game and encircle the girl, apparently in a final overture to signal her end was indeed nigh.

High in a tree, the ghost watches invisibly and thusly unseen by any of the players down below. The wolves were restless, their huge bodies striking out and attacking each other as they each attempted to take down the largest of the pack in order to vie for a chance at Lydia. Her cries into the woods with his name – pleading for him alone were like sweet notes to a private song. _Whomever else she was attempting to meet in these woods wasn't the name on her lips when her doom was almost assured._ As she curls up on the forest floor and her pleading intensifies, it pulls on his heart in a way that he finally can't ignore…his dastardly ego assuaged, he determines it's probably time to fully intervene. _First lesson learned, babes?_

The werewolves were forcing his hand anyway, the largest had nearly come away clean and was rounding on Lydia.

Suddenly, from her perspective, the largest werewolf stalking towards her has a challenger. Bursting from the huddle of the four other enormous wolves lurches one that is even larger. It's horrifying looking and doesn't look _quite_ right, thick and rotting hair covers its herculean frame, yellowing teeth sticking out of its massive maw at all angles. The mane it bares is huge, vaguely striped and it looks like it's just crawled out of some dark pit of a swamp with how filthy it is. It smells, too, stinks almost to high heaven and the largest werewolf whirls away from Lydia to face its new opponent.

This wolf has rankled the others. As if acknowledging him as some sort of stranger, they all launch at this new foe at once. They attach to it in various places with teeth and claws, tearing at fur and flesh. It fights them, roaring, tripping them, punching them, using techniques that seem to utterly perplex them. Eventually, they stop biting – every time one of them tries to get purchase with their teeth they spit him out like a rotten thing, crying out and pawing at their faces. The stench increases and eventually the largest wolf gives way, snorfling, sneezing, growling furiously, covered in blood. With a keening final whine, he leads his pack away back into the safety of the woods, utterly bemused as to the entire affair. With the real threat gone, the huge, hunched over beast shifts suddenly to face a horrified Lydia.

_Time to have some fun. _

_She thinks she has him tame, does she? Thinks she can waltz into these woods to meet someone else, does she?_ He stalks forward, slowly, halfway on all fours. Big, hairy paws and paw-like hands thud into the soft forest floor as he moves with catlike grace. Blazing, unnatural green eyes fixed on her, unblinking and his maw drools – a low growl building in his throat. He hopes she runs. Oh, he hopes… he _hopes_ she runs.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

There was a new contender in the arena. Effortlessly, the filthy, albino beast struck down the competition, the very taste of its pungent fur causing the other werewolves to cringe and flee. Opposition disposed of, the monster turned on her. Electric green orbs flashed unwavering in her direction as it stalked closer; jaw drooping, tongue lolling, mounds of fur heaving with each panting breath. It aimed a deep rumbling growl at her, marking its unsavory intentions.

This was no good Samaritan, not like Lydia had hoped when it first made its appearance. She wasn't out of the woods yet. This one meant to harm her. It would sink those grimy yellow teeth into her until all that was left were bones, scraps of spider silk, and a puddle of blood seeping into the barren Neitherworld soil.

"Please," she whimpered uselessly, begging as though it might understand her. It took another step. She was practically hugging the basket now, holding it close to her chest like it was a precious thing that needed protecting. _"Please," _she tried again, desperately imploring to whatever scrap of humanity or conscience the behemoth might possess. Another step was taken, not a sliver of mercy to be found. Reflexively, she leaned back on her elbows, putting as much distance between them as she could. It froze at the movement and then so did she.

Everything seemed to happen all at once. The growl increased in volume, so much so that Lydia could discern each of the beast's individual bristles vibrating. Fight-or-flight kicked in. Wisely, or perhaps unwisely, Lydia differed to _flight._ The logical side of her knew that this was a fruitless effort, but her animal instincts were too riled to care. Despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins, pushing her forward, fueling her determination to _live-_ it wasn't enough. She was barely on her feet before it _pounced_, trapping her in a cage of wiry fur and gargantuan paws.

"_BETELGEUSE!" _She screamed, lashing out tiny fists recklessly to land weak, cushioned blows into its wealth of rotting fur. Black streaks lined her cheeks as tears blurred her vision, the meticulous work she'd done painting her face all for naught. _She was going to die. Her last breath would be his name._ **He wasn't coming.**

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

_Yes!_

A shivery thrill runs through under Betelgeuse's skin as Lydia pleads and then, at his vocal encouragement, she takes off. He only chases her for a short time, though before relieving her of the option, far too excited to let her get away for long. He practically whimpers to her as he pins her down, every part of him electric. She smells like fear and sweat, and she's screaming his name. Beating on him uselessly. The villainous, dark places in him are _drunk_ with pleasure. He takes pity on her, then, because the deepest parts of him also love her so fiercely that even his eviler intentions don't fully win out.

"I'm right here, baby," his voice purrs into her ear, voice husky and deep, a rattling growl accentuating his words. "Don't you recognize your husband? I shoulda picked this instead of the snake when we first met, you'da never had me pinned."

His muzzle dips, nose ghosting her neck, and a broad, wet tongue lathes its way slowly up her tender, sweat-sheened skin. It swipes across her streaked eyes, her mouth, and a low chuckle burbles from within his hairy throat… he's monstrously mussed her makeup only worse, most likely. It's a shame because she looked stunning when she left the house. In his esteemed opinion, she looked stunning now, pitifully beneath him.

"_God_ baby, I'm sorry I scared ya, but you're really, _really_ sexy when you're scared. I wouldn'ta let those brutes hurt ya though." He shifts his weight and releases her arms at least, growling pleasurably at her, those fierce green eyes practically glowing as he remains breathily atop Lydia's prone form. "How'd you get all the way out here in those sweet little horns and that darlin' little outfit, anyhow?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

The pounding organ in her chest stuttered at the beautiful sound of that gravelly, familiar voice. All at once, she went limp, every ounce of fight leaving her strung tight, trembling form.

"B-Beej?" She stammered in disbelief, still of the mindset that death was imminent. Now that it was brought to her attention, she could see the similarities; the jagged stripes in his monstrous mane, the pattern of the moss that grew over his fangs, the mischievous glint in those eyes. Up close and personal, she could see his fur wasn't white all over. There were off portions of yellowing platinum that were identical to thin strands on her husband's balding head.

"_How…? Why…?" _Lydia wasn't sure what she was asking. A giant tongue swiped up her neck and face in a comforting gesture, cleaning away sweat, makeup, and tears. She broke. Delirious almost in her relief, she began crying anew and _clung_ to him; arms wrapped around his thick neck, fisting the fur on his back, face buried in his chest, the hair there dampening as she carried on. Lydia was so very small in comparison to this form. He enveloped her without even trying, his mere presence enough to overwhelm. That he derived perverse pleasure from her fear was hardly surprising, but it wouldn't stop her from seeking comfort in his embrace.

"I-I was so _scared,"_ she sniveled, clutching impossibly closer. Admitting fear was a humbling experience for her, but there was no denying her terror, not when it was so strong he could probably smell it. "I was g-going to surprise you, b-but then they were chasing me and- and _it all happened so fast._ I thought I was going to _die out here alone and nobody would know what happened to me."_

Lydia knew she sounded silly and pathetic, her voice whiny and hitched with tears, but she couldn't stop. Shock had taken hold, rendering her incapable of keeping up the mature woman act. Now more than ever Lydia embodied the traits that drew him to her so long ago; frightened, fragile, and at the mercy of his beast.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Ah, there was the recognition. Once it spread across Lydia's shocked face, he nuzzles at her affectionately with his broad muzzle. The jig was up, and the evil thing twisting in his belly was quelled for now. Had he been split apart from it, it would be laughing at the pleasant horror it had wrought. The way it showed affection was like this – using every awful ability at its command to elicit a response. He knew what he was – ugly, frightening. _Violently deceased._

Lydia's small hands find purchase in his tangled hoary mane and he practically pants, especially as she goes on about how scared she _really was._ He can still get to her, it seems and for some reason, that's a reward in itself, and his whole body thrums as she clutches him, cleaving to him like a scared youngling. It was almost as sweet as when he did encounter her as the snake, so vulnerable, so emotionally naked.

He was going to soothe her, but as she admits she had come out here to _surprise him_, guilt tears through his belly and startles him. It's short-lived, but ferocious…she wasn't out here meeting anyone _else_. She had done this for _him_. Pure, sweet girl. He laps at her still, his hot breath baring down her neck, and his claws gently draw down the fabric of her poncho.

"Not gonna die," he grumbles gently, "I'm always watchin'. Specially out here. Those guys looked scary, but they weren't gonna hurt you. They were uh…playin'. This place can be a little scary, but you're _brave_. You woulda socked that biggest furball in the snoot n' sent him runnin', I'm sure of it babes." Whether or not she would have is unclear. His blood was still running hot for her, especially as she trembles so prettily. His teeth click gently around her horns and tug at them.

"I warned ya 'bout these," he mutters, "Since yer wearin' em…I get the idea you want _somethin'."_ The oversized claws that had glided across the poncho before now bear down, ripping nastily through the fabric. He exposes her flesh to him mercilessly, the pale expanse catching the strange light so prettily. His heavy, hot breaths never pause, but his lips curl back to reveal nasty, elongated teeth. "Now that you know yer not gonna die," those teeth dip to her neck and gently squeeze at her throat, the panting turning into soft, grunting huffs. He's getting worked up. "I'm gonna admit….I'm findin' myself a little _anxious…_"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_Brave._ He thought she was _brave_. A puddle of warmth pooled at her center at such a compliment from as horrifying a creature as him. They were just… _playing_ with her? That heart-pounding chase didn't feel like frivolous frolicking to Lydia, but what did she know? Nothing, that's what. She started up as he tore at her clothing, cutting through the flimsy silk like butter with his monstrous claws, somehow managing to avoid scraping flesh in the process.

"_Beej!" _She cried out in horror at the loss, holding the ruined strips of fabric up around her nude form- more out of surprise than modesty. There was only a moment allotted for mourning before his intent fully sank in. He couldn't possibly mean to _sleep_ with her… like _that?_ No, he couldn't. He was far too large, not even _human_. It wasn't possible… _was it?_ Betelgeuse certainly seemed to think it was judging by the wolfish grin he bared down at her, literally drooling at the sight of so much exposed flesh.

_Oh, no._ Razor sharp incisors pressed into her neck, making Lydia go very, very still. If she were to move, they would surely break skin. Despite the bounty of foolish, misplaced trust she placed in her husband, her pulse fluttered rapidly beneath those dagger-like teeth, marking her rising panic.

"Beej," she breathed, sounding calmer than she felt, attempting to reason with him, "we _can't_. Not- not like _this."_ Involuntary shivers traveled up her spine and she worried that the compulsory motions might force his fangs deeper. _"You're too big,"_ she implored fearfully, stating the obvious. "Can't we just… the _normal_ way?"

Betelgeuse had done a fair job of tainting Lydia's idea of what "normal" sex was supposed to be, but hopefully he was willing to compromise.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The awful teeth release poor Lydia's delicate neck once Betelgeuse properly shreds her clothes. Finding her fully exposed to him properly now despite her clutching at the remains of scraps of fabric, his lips pull back into a similar, hungry smile as he once wore as when he first encountered her as that snake, greedily drinking her in. His tongue runs along the bottom of those nasty teeth, a low, reverberating growl building in his throat. Lydia was quick to pick up his intentions – which couldn't be more obvious now and as she protests he dips his head down again. A slick, broad, overly warm tongue lathes down her neck where the teeth once threatened and across her collarbone. She tastes of sweet tangy sweat, and his entire body shudders with a mean sort of hunger for her.

"Don't worry baby," he mutters, voice husky and low, those green eyes glittering from within the darkened pits of his sockets, wild and foreign, "I'll be _gentle." _As if to illustrate, a paw the size of her head lightly brushes her cheek, the claw, a vicious and stained sickle-shaped thing lightly drags along her flawless, soft skin. He can feel her pulse underneath one of his fat paw pads and it causes him to utter a perfectly filthy noise from the depths of his throat.

"'Sides, yer sleepin' with a dead guy deep in the woods of the land of the dead, a dead guy who you married, babes. _Twice_ nearly. You signed _off_ on normal a long time ago. Yer still Edgar Allen Poe's daughter in there, even though you look hot as hell in red and green."

His huge paws pull down the sides of her lithe form, then, indulgently, caressing her fully. They almost cover her entire torso and hips as he does it. Lydia can feel him tremble, controlling the abundance of thick wirey muscle down his arms and flank. Not tearing into her is taking some sort of heavy concentration, working the murderous shape he has taken to be a delicate lover instead of a meat grinder. His thick palms wrap around the base of each one of her thighs, almost encircling each one completely within them and pulling them apart easily. Resisting him was like trying to bend iron bars and the werewolf-Betelgeuse is easily able to push the fragile, pale girl beneath himself to his liking.

And he does _like._ That slightly rough lupine tongue is back at work again, drawing long, heavy strokes against the soft mounds of her pert breasts. They lap slowly, drawing the warm, slick sheet of flesh along her nipples over and over, the appendage itself almost as thick as her arm. Once the disgusting beast has them thoroughly coated in slimy drool and worked into a flushed rosy color that contrasts against the rest of her pale skin, he grumbles pleasurably and moves on. Down her sternum he licks, down her belly, wet overly large nose poking at her as he makes angry little interrupted snarls to himself.

Some form of lightning flashes overhead, fully illuminating his ghastly, mountainous form briefly - just in time to see the hirsute crown of his massive head duck between Lydia's creamy thighs. He might cause her some fright in this, considering those horrific rows of gnarly teeth are so close to her _most sensitive_ of places, but his intentions seem to be puerile only. Betelgeuse's tongue drags slowly, steadily up her sweet sex, pushing those delicate folds open along the edges of the insistent muscle. As he tastes her he rattles out a heavy, pleasurable moan, snorting a large hot breath of air against her skin. He proceeds to do it again, and again, lapping serenely and lustily, long acres of tongue pulling at her repeatedly until he's satisfied she's ready… or begging… for more.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

He wouldn't be _gentle_. How could he? _He didn't know how._ Even in his humanoid skin, he was inherently savage, incapable of escaping his ruthless nature- even if he wanted to _try_. Betelgeuse was accustomed to sweeping in, taking what he wanted, and doing so unapologetically. Now would be no different.

Lydia considered herself open-minded in the realm of sexual exploits. Though her experience was little more than a puddle compared to his ocean of carnal knowledge, she still knew some things. So far, nothing they'd done together had pushed her envelope, though he was certainly trying his damnedest. Threesomes were ordinary enough to pass as bearable, but _beastiality_ was a whole other animal- so to speak.

"Beej," she trembled, going unheard as he lapped at her breasts eagerly with that monstrous, bristled tongue, mammoth paws holding her down by her thighs, spread apart in the proper position for rutting, "I don't- I don't think this is a good idea." A cute, furry ear twitched in her direction, but he didn't deign this objection as serious enough to pause his devouring of her. She wanted to scratch it out of sheer curiosity, but even as he indulged flagrantly, he was growling like a properly agitated beast. Lydia knew better than to provoke rabid dogs.

That hesitancy went right out the window when he moved his attention down. Mercilessly, he dragged that rough, wet slithering muscle along the apex between her legs with slow, hard, deliberate motions. It touched _everything_ from thigh to thigh, not a centimeter of sensitive flesh spared from his gorging. A barely human cry ripped from her throat and she dug her hands right into the fur around his pointed ears, tugging and yanking mindlessly as she lathed his tongue with the sweet cream of her release.

_Why was this a bad idea again?_ He continued to feast on her throughout the aftershocks of her peak and she watched, an inkling of dread creeping back in as moonlight illuminated a weeping, hairless oddly shaped monstrosity of an organ lurking between his hind legs. _Oh yeah._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

_Beautiful. Fuckin'….beautiful._ Nothing pleases the ghoul more than when his hesitant, naïve wife is pulled into his vortex of carnal indulgence. The sensation of her hands yanking at him, pulling at him, her throat screaming raw for him makes him snarl into her pussy victoriously.

He slowly and serenely pulls every drop of cream into his eager maw, paws still gripped at her trembling thighs. He waits until she's caught enough of her breath before his tongue retreats, and he uses the leverage of his paws to flip Lydia over onto her belly unceremoniously. He's not, as he promised, gentle about it – as his precious wife suspected the body he inhabits is anything but gentle on top of his rude and careless nature.

The taking would continue, it seems, reminding Lydia of _exactly_ why this was a bad idea in precise relief. She can feel his enormous, furry body hunch up behind her, those massive paws of his tucking around her hips. Again, the claws almost touch across Lydia's lower belly with the length of his fingers, tickling at her skin. She doesn't see him anymore as much as _feel_ him, a looming presence over her back and…that strange, singularly alien arousal prodding at one of her thighs.

Lydia can feel it lurch and swell, sending a gush of warm sticky liquid down her leg. He seems to be adjusting, angling properly, muscular fur covered thighs hitching up around her hips. He was going to _mate_ with her. He was going to, as he put it, breath heavy, panting and deep, "_…breed_ ya a bit babes. It's a …thing o' mine. You came _all the way_ out here my brave lil' sexy adventurer… I think though, the adventure has found a lil' bit of you." The thing at her leg throbs.

His lupine toes dig into the dirt and he seems to finally arrange himself properly, Lydia can feel the peculiar, speared tip of his cock nudge and root up between her thighs, pressing up between her vaginal lips. He is _large_, perhaps a touch larger than he usually is, but girthy. And _productive_ – he's already sending large, messy quantities of pre up against her flesh with each pulse of his length. And then, without warning he pushes into her, a bestial noise tearing from his throat.

_"Fuck," _he grits and then curses an elongated version of the word. Inch by inch, he stretches Lydia around him, his thighs almost shaking with the effort to control himself and do it slowly. It's a foreign shape and an even stranger texture, smooth and overly warm, and singularly fleshy despite being as hard as he is.

The shaft itself seems peculiarly short, it only takes a couple of thrusts on his part to be buried inside of her, but something else is nudging at her behind it. Something hard, and large, and bulb-shaped.

Betelgeuse shamelessly wheezes and pants atop her. "God _damn_, I missed you, girl…"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia wasn't sure if she was ready to embark on the kind of adventures Betelgeuse wanted to take her on. He was singularly perverse, ready and willing to force her limits broader despite any shyness, hesitancy, or trepidation on her part. After all, it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, especially from as merciful and lenient a girl as Lydia. It definitely helped Betelgeuse's cause that he was _good at what he did._ While outwardly it appeared that he dragged her into these outlandish trysts on little more than a whim, he did so with the experience and know-how of a proper sexual deviant. This was a "thing" of his. _She was not the first girl he had mated._ Maybe one of those werewolves from before was an ornery ex-girlfriend.

His initial thrust made her cry out, his peculiarly speared tip driving him deep easily without the warning friction and resistance that a plump, humanoid cock tip would provide. Reflexively, she lurched forward at the intrusion, grabbing fistfuls of grass for leverage as though she might be able to pull herself out from under him. A colossal paw around her hip kept her in place as he pushed forward insistently. The bulb at the base of his cock surged forcefully at her entrance, stretching, prodding, trying to fit itself someplace it didn't belong. A thickly muscled, fur-covered arm dug into the dirt in front of her shoulder, keeping her braced for further violation.

Eager for whatever kind of comfort she could find, even if it wasn't his intention to provide such a thing, a tiny fist curled into the fur atop the paw he'd lodged into the dirt before her- _holding his hand._ Whimpers and high-pitched mewls spilled past her lips as he fucked her, filling the clearing with sounds of her indecisive pleasure. It felt so good- just the right amount of hurt, pangs of that exquisite pain he had painstakingly trained her to enjoy. This was so _wrong_. So _dirty_. Lydia would sooner have let him fuck her ass than take her like _this_. She couldn't help but feel like a filthy pervert by mere association, nevermind that this was in no way her idea.

PETA definitely would not approve.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Perhaps one of the werewolves was an ornery ex. It was so hard to say with Betelgeuse – he may have spent full years as a werewolf, prowling the woods, mating, forgetting his humanity entirely until he wound up naked and addled one day on Tar Beach and wandered away from that little stint of adventure. Maybe it was simply because he vaguely remembered missing cigarettes.

He does seem peculiarly skilled in this arena, however, but his enthusiasm for Lydia makes him sloppy and grotesque in his mannerisms. She's unsure, and her quiet body language tells him so – her little hand closing around as much of his huge paw as it can manage and her high pitched, confused vocalizations as he steadily fucks her. It's wildly arousing, and it isn't long before he proceeds with an even more devious component of this little tryst.

That thick bulb of flesh that keeps kissing at her opening, threateningly rutting against her with each thrust is being pushed even harder with each swing of his strong hips after a time. His heavy, furred ball-sack thumps against Lydia's thighs in a steady rhythm too, slapping against her with a singular weight thanks to their full size. They seem to be getting larger, too, swelling and pulling up tight as if preparing for their eventual release. The ghoul is drooling, panting, huffing into poor Lydia's long hair and grumbling his filthiest desires to her. This is _utterly perverse_ and a good taste of how weird having sex with a ghost can get.

"Hold on tight baby," he eventually growls out, pleasurably, clearly mischievous in tone – almost laughing to her, "_Last part_ is comin'…."

With that, the bulb is pushed forth. It is a hard knot of muscle being forced past Lydia's already stretched vaginal opening, causing her to yawn wide around the intrusion. He's careful not to hurt her beyond the aching hurt he's already causing her, the size appears to be _just enough_ to challenge her. His teeth close around her delicate neck briefly, holding her in place as he performs the maneuver. Once it sinks in good and deep, wedging him inside, it's clear he's good and trapped thanks to Lydia's clenching vaginal muscles. He tries to shuffle his hips a little, giving her the sensation of it attempting and failing to move. It only takes a few motions like this, however, to bring him to the edge – with a hard growl into Lydia's neck his balls tighten fully and with a lurching sensation his wife can feel him begin to spill thick ropes of cum deep inside her. The Betelgeuse werewolf releases her neck and howls from deep in his chest, clutching her fiercely, throwing his head back and lustily announcing his climax.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_Oh, God, it hurt!_ This wasn't the delicious, stretching agony she had come to long for- _hence her Red Riding Hood inspired trek through the woods-_ but a searing rush of pure, unadulterated pain. _He was going to rip her apart._ Fresh tears wet her cheeks. A primal sound ripped from her core as she seized forward, ignoring the fangs at her neck and grabbing fistfuls of dirt and grass in a futile attempt at escape. This was a mistake. There was no freedom to be found. He was stuck, the bulbous knot and source of her misery swelling to proportions that made it impossible for her to simply disengage, even on the off chance he might allow it. The delicate flesh beneath his teeth punctured at the defiant struggle, spilling blood.

Finally, whether from the furious jostling of their interlocked hips, the metallic taste of her vital fluids on his tongue, or the sheer _satisfaction_ of all his beast's baser desires being met at once, he came. Gargantuan paws clenched around her hips, back, and stomach, the claws digging in carelessly, drawing thin lines that pulled even more blood from her person. Not too much… but _enough_. Savagely, he howled his pleasure to the surrounding woods, warding off any potential predators that might have been lurking. She could feel the gush of hot seed pooling in her womb, unable to escape and dribble down her thighs past the inflated coil of bunched muscle the way it normally would. The soothing heat helped to ease the biting stab in her center, which was already lessening the longer he remained lodged within her.

Lydia was fading. Somewhere in between her escape attempt and his peak she'd gone limp beneath him. She was vaguely aware of that tentacle-like tongue lathing over her neck, a large paw having batted her hair out of the way to grant him access to the trickling breaks in her skin. His grip had weakened, allowing her frail body to slump lifelessly to the forest floor, hindquarters still propped in the air and intimately interlocked with his groin.

With darkened, swirling vision, she was still in the midst of trying to make sense of what had happened to her- _what was still happening-_ when she saw it. Her basket, the one she carried out here. The one that carried a French silk pie that had taken her many arduous hours to prepare. Not because she made the whipped cream topping herself from scratch or arranged the chocolate shavings into an intricate, beautiful beetle design that she was very happy with, but because of the _live worms_ she'd painstakingly collected and folded into the mixture; slimy, wriggling things digging tunnels through the decadent chocolate mousse. Any extra creepy crawlies excavated from the garden were stirred into a macaroni salad she thought he might like.

The basket that carried this pie, this precious work of art, was laying on its side several feet from them, contents sprawled across the clearing. A tupperware full of macaroni salad had busted, allowing many of the sauce-coated creepers to make a sluggish escape. The pie tin was completely upturned, meticulously decorated toppings smashed into the lid. A legitimate sob shook her bodily at the sight and she reached for it fruitlessly, as though she might turn back time and save the tainted treat from its abysmal ending.

"_No,"_ she croaked, vocal cords frayed. Something else lay beside the capsized pie, something that looked like a book, pages spread open on the dirt, spine facing the trifecta of moons. _At least the scrapbook was okay._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The dark parts of Betelgeuse's heart twisted and writhed happily as Lydia struggled. He _liked_ frightening the living, he _liked_ causing distress. His love for her was tangled up in those desires, and the desire to drag her down into whatever dark and gross pit from whence he came. The ghoul didn't _deserve_ her. He _took_ her, and is continuing to take _from_ her – this tryst in the woods is no exception. Perhaps the initial victim of his affections, when he was still living, had actually _done herself a favor_ by relieving herself of his amorous intentions, or perhaps these base desires grew over the course of many hundreds of years with no direction other than _self-fulfillment._

Either way, all that monstrous pleasure is erased abruptly with the faint _"no" t_hat his poor wife manages to hoarsely, and weakly, exclaim aloud. She's _crying_. The distinct sensation of someone reaching into his sternum and snaring his guts in order to twist them and wrench them explodes through him. Betelgeuse shudders and snarls in frustration.

_He hurt her._ Or at least, _she's protesting._

One of her arms is reaching for something. The ghoul follows its path quickly and notes the upturned basket. There's some sort of broken container, and an upended pie tin. He makes a strange face above her akin to a scowl, and disengages with her bodily, his arousal quite thoroughly squashed at the idea that Lydia has denoted he's pushed too far. Had this been much earlier in their encounters, without the emotional elements to cloud his decision-making, he would have felt no remorse for having a little freaky fun with her at her protest. He wouldn't really have had any feelings about hurting her one way or the other, other than it would have upset her and delighted him. But things are _much_ different now, and guilt tears through him like a knife.

With a grunt, his flaccid cock releases the contents built up behind it as he pulls back, leaving her with a flood of cum down her pale legs.

"Whazzamatter?" he finally asks drunkenly, his fevered brain catching up with the emotions that left him spinning. "What…? That?" he points at the basket and its upended contents with a huge claw, gracelessly releasing Lydia's hips, dumping her to the ground in a spent pile – but only because his eagerness to fix whatever he'd done accidentally was the first thing he'd thought to do. Maybe he hadn't hurt her? Maybe it wasn't the sex? Maybe it had something to do with what she brought? _Help._

He hops to the carnage of food in an ape-like series of movements before carefully pulling the pie tin back over with his claws and scooping the macaroni back into its container messily, grass and dirt having been accidentally added into it with his efforts. He cleans his fat palm paw pad off on the edge, glooping brownish muck into the creamy color of the macaroni. His nose twitches and he seems to realize what the food items are. They contain insects. He can smell those from a mile away.

"Uh," he says, intelligently to the collapsed pile of Lydia, still clutching the abused macaroni, "Uhhh…. can I eat this? Is this….did y'make this for me?" The creepers had begun to escape from the salad again, onto his enormous hair covered hands. Without waiting for an answer, he attempts to stop them with his messy, oversized mouth without even thinking about it.

_His beautiful, thoughtful wife had stuffed this macaroni salad full of living insects for him. She had gotten dressed up and had made him an entire lunch full of food and bugs, and put on her pretty horns and had come out to the woods to try and surprise him._

The elements clicked.

Betelgeuse hunches and, licking his hairy arms free of bugs, he whines pitifully; a rattling wounded noise. His ears pin back onto his head as the full realization hits him.

_FUCK._

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"I did," she sniffled dismally in response, curling her battered form up into a fetal ball to help ward off the coming chill. Without the hulking mass of fur and muscle enveloping her space, an unpleasant breeze swept over her blood, sweat, and tear slicked flesh. The skin on her knees was roughed and muddied, the rest of her smudged with dirt in places. Once lush and glossy raven locks had been grabbed and mussed into a knotted mess, twigs and leaves from the chase entangled in her thick mane. She cringed watching him thoughtlessly scrape mud into all her hard work, though was aware that he meant well.

"But now it's _ruined."_ Whether or not he would eat it with the soil garnish was irrelevant. If Lydia had wanted soil in the stupid macaroni salad she wouldn't have gone through so much trouble rinsing off the bugs. "There's _dirt_ in it," she bemoaned like he didn't already know, "and the _stupid pie_ is messed up and it took me _forever_ to get the design _just right_ and now you'll never see it and- and- _it's not fair!"_ She was rambling now, sobbing irrationally over the spoiled picnic. "Today was supposed to be _perfect_ and everything's _wrong."_

It was not beyond her notice that Betelgeuse was the one who had tackled her to the round and flung the basket from her arms in the first place, but she didn't blame him. How could he have known? _He was saving her._ The least she could do was let him partake of her body in payment. It wasn't _that_ bad. She may have thought she was dying for a moment or two there, but he would _never hurt her._ He loved her. He just liked scaring her sometimes. She wished he didn't.

"I made you a _stupid_ scrapbook, too." It seemed so silly and sentimental in the wake of all she had been through today and everything he had given her. Nothing more than a collection of some of her favorite candid photos she'd managed capturing of him under his notice, pressed petals from her wedding bouquet, the ticket stubs from their first date, and a handful of poems that reminded her of him, the pages ripped right from the binding of their book. Most of the scrapbook was empty. She wanted to keep it until it was full and then let him see, but had concluded he was far too nosy for her to keep a secret for that long. When Lydia began her day, an optimistic attitude had blinded her to the truth of what it really was.

"It's _stupid. Dumb, girly, emotional shit._ It's not even half full. You shouldn't even _bother_."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

It took Betelgeuse a good long series of strange half lupine, half human expressions to figure out what to say in response to…well, all _that_. He winds up with a bemused and relatively befuddled look on his pointy features, and after a moment he reaches down between his thighs, itches himself and idly sniffs his fingers while the other hand continues to clutch the spoiled macaroni.

Lydia didn't say he _couldn't_ eat it amongst all that word salad, so like a dog offered a relatively spectacular treat and unable to keep from resisting it he begins to devour the contents of the bug-riddled container, soil, muck and all. It's perfectly clear he doesn't care what anything looks like before he eats it, or whether or not the bugs are cleaned, or that it's even got components of highly edible things within it. He's sucking the stuff from his fingers, lapping it from his oversized nose, his face furrowed in what must be some form of spectacular concentration. The noises he makes while eating are perfectly vile on their own, snorfling, sucking, slurping being finished off with a loud and appeased _BRAAAAAP_ by the end.

He tosses the empty container over his shoulder carelessly, and eyes Lydia from under that heavy lupine brow. "Picnic's been perfect for me so far," he remarks as if his confidence would entirely fix the situation, "That was great. _Bellissimo_."

At her further comments about what else she brought he grumbles, perfectly perplexed. He'd been able to soothe her crying jags before – but he's not entirely sure at what angle this one is coming from. Sure, he's left plenty of girls sobbing, angry _wrecks_ after having sex with him, but this was different. He didn't _enjoy_ whatever this was.

"C'mon Lyds," he implores after a moment, shuffling his gigantic way back over to the sad form of his wife. He pulls her abused and fragile body up from where she's crumpled and crying into enormous, burly wolf arms. It's here that he changes back into her ordinary ghoulish husband, the enveloping and perhaps overwhelming embrace of the wolf transitioning back to just his own more proportional hairy arms. He's wearing the Guide outfit sans coat, which appears to generally be his default when he's not being an immediate nuisance. "Babes, I will eat _anything_. And I really do mean _anything_."

His face is right up against Lydia's as he holds her, crouched against her, peeling her rumpled strands of hair out of her tear-streaked face. Betelgeuse pushes some of the still-flowing tears off her cheeks with his stained fingers, almost as if determined to stem the waterworks. From thin air he yanks a blanket for her, since he unapologetically shredded her clothes like a crude Chop Slap.

"C'mon c'mon, c'mon," he cajoles, wrapping her up by the shoulders, "This is _me_ you're talkin' about! You know I _love_ stupid girly shit, it comes with the territory of lovin' girls. I've been lookin' for more of your diaries for _weeks_ babes."

This is supposed to be reassuring but clearly doesn't land in the manner he'd hoped probably. Betelgeuse twists his hand out and the scrapbook flies into it as if attracted to it like a magnet, snapping into his palm easily like a Jedi using the force to summon a lightsaber. Tongue poking out from between his exposed teeth, Betelgeuse shakes off the volume, smacking it with a palm roughly to remove the detritus of the forest floor off of it.

"There we go," he mutters. The scrapbook doesn't look too much better altogether but according to the ghoul it _does_ so he settles it into his lap, Lydia rucked up against his side and flips it open, crossing his legs as if reading a Jane Austin novel by the seaside. "I left two pies equally messy," the ghost says out of the corner of his mouth conspiratorially to her, as if telling her a great and wicked secret, "And I'm gettin' to eat 'em both, so this is really just a bonus, babes."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia leaned into his touch as easily as she always did, not in any position to turn down the comforts he provided. It wasn't until their relationship really began to develop that she realized how starved she was for physical contact; a touch, a hug, a kiss. As soon as he grabbed her up in his arms, she could feel the crushing weight in her chest lighten. When grimy hands brushed at her hair and swiped across her cheeks, tears stopped forming in her ducts. It was as though he'd imbued her with some of his juice, but Lydia knew better than that. He liked the sight of her tears too much to go to that much trouble ending them.

"Two pies?" She queried, his filthy double meaning going right over her head initially. "But I only made… one…" A river of cum dribbled down her thighs, sticky and uncomfortable, and Lydia's tear-stained complexion scrunched in comprehension. _"Gross."_ Despite his lewd mannerisms, she settled on one of his thighs while the scrapbook flipped open on the other, and explained each item and picture as he flipped through.

"Those are from the bouquet that Ginger gave me… I got this one when you took me Uptown…" The picture in question featured Betelgeuse in his guide outfit, scowling at the photographer with arms crossed stubbornly over his chest, almost _pouting_. A dark, gargantuan paw belonging to a very happy grim sat just in the corner of the frame, marking the reason for the photographed Betelgeuse's ire. "I think you're cute when things aren't going your way," she added in explanation teasingly.

Another one taken on the same day showed him sprawled across his side of the booth at Donny's eye scream shoppe, sharp eyes locked on passersby through the window, a cigarette dangling from his gritty claws. His mouth was fixed into a half-cocked grin from one of her jokes, revealing gnarled teeth, and he wore bold black and white stripes. Contrary to all the classically unattractive attributes he exhibited, Lydia had managed to capture a moment that could almost denote him as handsome- an impressive feat indeed. A piece of torn book paper captioned the photo with a poem by Langston Hughes.

_He glides so swiftly  
__Back into the grass-  
__Gives me the courtesy of road  
__To let me pass,  
__That I am half ashamed  
__To seek a stone  
__To kill him. _

"This," she began, trailing a black-painted fingernail across the printed words, "makes me think about our first wedding. _I told you this was stupid," _she dismissed before he had a chance to say anything about the poem, be it positive or negative, and moved on to the next page. They had already reached the end. Two wallet sized photos not encased in the plastic slip almost fell to the ground before Lydia caught them. They were both of her, taken with the timer on her digital camera, developed and printed at a local Walgreen's.

"These are, uhm," she faltered, suddenly nervous, and slid the more lascivious of the two behind the safer one. "For you. To take with you. So, you know, if you miss me it's not that bad."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Fortunately for Lydia, Betelgeuse is _all about_ physical contact. Especially with her – every part of him is peculiarly drawn to her in a way that he can't understand and isn't about to start resisting. One arm wraps around the girl's slight midsection as she settles in on his thigh, one hand holding the scrapbook there, the other free to flip through its pages.

He grins _wildly_ as she finds disgust at his implications, merrily chuckling in response, but soon settles in with attention at the items Lydia has arranged and carefully collected. They cataloged all their adventures so far, including parts of the wedding, which makes him feel both warm and _thoroughly rotten_ for his earlier proclivities with her. He was not fond of this new _guilt_ thing. Not even a little.

As they reach a picture of him, the ghoul pauses heavily. A dirty fingernail gently draws over his face. He doesn't respond to Lydia for a moment – mirrors and cameras had not captured his appearance for longer than he could remember. He had degraded since last he could recall, even. The moss had encroached on more of his skin, the pits of his eyes grown darker. He was indeed annoyed in the photo, and Betelgeuse's smile twists wryly up.

"Well y'did get with the _most handsome_ guy in the _entire_ Neitherworld…" he says, confidence attempting to cover up how he really felt about seeing himself. "And I dunno what you're talkin' about – things always go my way! Well, minus sandworms, but y'know." He kisses her cheek though and seems eager to move on.

More photos of him though greet him on the next page. This one, however, was different. He looked shockingly debonair, almost like a dead version of Marlon Brando. She got his _good side_ – or so he's decided swiftly in the moment, and this photo seems to assuage any mixed feelings left behind of the previous one. He mumbles the poem captioning the photo under his breath as he reads it. He's not familiar with the poem, and Lydia stifles any response to it that he could have had. Unbeknownst to her, he's already settled on memorizing it.

Her fluster takes new form as they indeed reach the end of the book, with the two loose photos that tumble out. The ghost accepts them with eyebrows raised once Lydia passes them over in curiosity over her cryptic description of them.

"Not that bad huh?" he replies, holding the wallet-sized photos up so he could see them in the strange light. The first one he sees is _stunning_.

It's Lydia, of course, dressed in all black. Ala truly _Edgar Allen Poe's daughter._ She's hugging a very delighted Bubby, and both of them wear big, joyful smiles. She truly looks brightly, unapologetically happy and sweet. Big dark eyes looking at the camera, pale skin standing out even against the Maitlands' porch, it is the very essence of who Lydia seems to be captured in a singular photograph.

For a good long moment, the ghost holding the picture is rendered speechless. "Wow," is all he says after a moment, quietly. He doesn't seem to know what else to say, fixated thoroughly as his eyes drift over and over again all the details of the photograph. "See, this is why I can't get enough of lookin' atcha. Or terrorizing you as a werewolf." He taps it with a finger, before rudely planting some playful sloppy kisses down Lydia's pale neck. "I'll treasure this Lyds. Thanks."

She coughs uncomfortably and nudges at the photos between his fingers again. As if reminded there was a second photo, and seemingly not a copy of the first, he shuffles the first one behind the one in question. Oh.

_OH._

_OHHHH._

_This_ was the Dante's girls' doing. The second photo is so blindly lascivious it takes Betelgeuse a minute to even register the contents. Horns placed carefully on her head, Lydia is spread-eagle for the camera. Creamy, luscious legs trussed in sexy garters greet his eyes, heels that look like they could crush a soul or two don both her feet. A perfectly and meticulously shaved pussy on full display for him right in the very center, every detail of her glistening mons captured. Those precious, perfect breasts of hers have also been left bare, arched beautifully as if begging the viewer, namely him, to take a taste. She's blushing, nervous, clearly shy about the entire concept of being photographed like this.

Betelgeuse audibly swallows. And then groans, barely resisting the urge to jam his hand directly down his pants for instant gratification.

"Ooooh baby," he purrs, breathily, "Ooooh. Mmm. I uh…mmm. Yeah, that'll keep me goin' while you're gone. But uh, it may make it worse for you when y'come back. I'm gonna want the real thing," he's shifting underneath her, squirming, and his arm tightens around her midsection. He hasn't taken his eyes from the photo but eventually, he glances at her lustily. His fingers are already sneaking underneath the blanket to get at Lydia's woefully nude skin, leaving one side of the book unattended as his other attempts to recompense balancing it. "I'll treasure all these things always, kitten. We could try doin' the picnic your way before a big gross hairy monster played Little Red Riding Hood n' ruined it?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Beej," she squirmed out of his lap as he started pawing at her, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders in defense of his searching fingers. If he thought he was getting any more sex from her any time soon, he was delusional. He was probably going to have to carry her back to the lighthouse as it was, the big bully. It wasn't as though she'd be able to make it back on her own even if her insides didn't feel like jelly. She hadn't thought to mark the way back, confident that her husband would handle it whenever the time came. In retrospect, this struck her as unwise. What if he _hadn't_ come? What if he wasn't always at her beck and call? In the future, she would bring a spool of ribbon and tie it around trees to mark her way. It would be horribly embarrassing to have to call him to her side just because she got lost. Chances were, the beast would come to her rescue, not the man.

"You _really_ like them?" She queried, unsure and unable to meet his gaze. Instead, she crawled awkwardly toward the tilted basket to retrieve both the muddled pie and the PB&J she'd made for herself. After putting together his lunch, Lydia hadn't retained the patience required for making anything particularly substantial for herself. No matter. She didn't need to eat much, and this was sure to hit the spot. "It took _forever_ to get some I was happy with. Bubby is much more photogenic than I am. I prefer to stay on the other side of the lens."

She shuffled back just as gracelessly, settling before him and tentatively lifting the pie lid. A small, disappointed sound humphed past her nose as she took in ruined design. It still _kind_ of looked like a beetle. If she squinted and turned her head.

"Here," she nudged it his way. "This is for you. The whole thing," she clarified, wasting no time in slipping her sandwich from its little plastic baggy. Their romp had left her positively ravenous. From his perspective, Betelgeuse could see the pie _moving_ beneath the mussed layer of whip cream and chocolate shavings. "It's a French Silk_worm_ Pie," she smirked, proud of her bad, imperfect pun, "except… you know… earthworms, because silkworms are indigenous to China._ I checked."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse grunted in disappointment as Lydia retreated from his groping but seemed content _enough_ to let her go. He was, at least, distracted her photograph again – already serving its purpose, but perhaps not in the way she had intended. The ghost eventually carefully tucks them into his suit pocket, aware that any more oogling of them would put his poor wife in a bad spot, looking back up to see her crawling along the ground away from him. He's half-way tempted to pounce her but remains steadfastly staring at her swaying, blanket-covered rump for now.

He snorts loudly at her question. "Babes, Lyds, I love them. I'd prove it to ya, but I think you've had enough for a bit. I mean, I _could_ jerk off, too, but I was gonna save _that_ for later." His tone is initially matter-of-fact, followed by a playful, simpering admission of, "Y'don't really know what y'do to me Lyds, y'just don't. Yer heart would _break_ for me if ya did."

It would not break, but Lydia would get a good dose of the hot and heavy desire he always felt for her at least. He pauses, "Wait, forever to get you some you were happy with…you took _more than one_ o' these?" he perks up, as if hoping to collect the entire set, but the look she throws him as she shuffles back over to him with her sandwich and the pie indicates he will never see them. _Damn._

As the squirming pie is nudged his way instead, he's easily distracted from the topic and lifts the treat to his face. He notes that there is definitely some writhing movement in there, the pie itself very _clearly_ the shape of a crushed beetle thank you very much. It was beautiful. It was _alive_. And as Lydia denotes what's inside of it, his heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces that all individually skip along. Not only had she filled his macaroni salad with a practical buffet of crawlies and beetles, she had stuffed this pie full of worms exclusively for him. And checked where silkworms came from.

His big, shiny, glittering eyes are huge as they look at her. Mooning would be the perfect description to his expression – that dopey, love-sick one that he wore when he forced her to sidle up to his side during their first wedding. "Babes," he says, voice thick with emotion, "If I hadn't proposed to ya twice already, I'd do it again."

Once the enthused statement leaves his lips, of course, he only pauses for a brief moment before sloppily going about devouring the delicious creamy concoction. No utensils needed, Betelgeuse is perfectly content to make a thoroughly disgusting mess of himself and his maroon beetle-patterned vest, slurping worms up like thrashing cream covered noodles. Once he's eaten most of it, he changes positions – moving to where Lydia sits before him, eating her sandwich and collapses bodily into her lap. Well, his head does, anyway, along with some of his shoulders and he buries his face against her blanket covered belly. He wraps his over-sized arms up around her hips and stays like that, his wiry hair the only thing visible in a tangled thatch.

"I love you," he mumbles, muffled by the fabric. How could he ever have doubted her? What a _fuckin' bozo he was._ He was so used to being double-crossed that's the first thing he could ever think. He was married to a goddamn angel. She'd never given him any reason to doubt her, and this cemented it. Almost inaudibly, and perhaps not even realizing he'd said it aloud he whispers into her midsection, _"Please…please let this be real."_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Technically, I think I proposed the second time," she corrected offhandedly, though he was probably too busy burying his face in her pie to hear. Contented by his obvious pleasure, she busied herself with polishing off the rest of her PB&J with tidy little bites. Once she was down to the crust, he flopped heavily into her lap, smudging chocolate mousse and whip cream along the blanket as he went. Lydia popped the last corner of sandwich into her mouth, then cradled him against her, drawing her hand across that wild mass of hair like she might if this were Bubby seeking her affections.

"I love you, too," she returned his muffled declaration easily, sentiment punctuated with a sweet smile and a kiss to his crown. _This_. This was the side of him Adam and Barbara would never see. If they could see him now, they would know there was no reason to fear for her when she was away with him. He was a monster, but he was her monster. Hunger and lust sated, he had been reduced to a gentle, purring beast in her arms. Lydia would have been content to curl up on the dirt with him right there and fall into a happy nap. She would have, too, until he said what he said next.

"_Please…please let this be real."_ Immediately, her smile vanished and she held him closer, bits and pieces of her heart splintering away.

"It's real," she assured, voice low and slow. "I hope so, anyway. I feel like that… a _lot_ when I'm with you." Something about his show of raw emotion, the pitiful doubt he aimed at his admittedly questionable sanity plucked at her heartstrings. So, she opened her mouth and she talked. He deserved to know.

"I tried to kill myself once," she admitted, continuing on before he could interrupt or she lost her nerve. "Before you or the Maitlands, before Connecticut. Back when we still lived in Manhattan. Nothing special happened to trigger me or anything. I was just depressed, and lonely, and bored, and everything I needed was right there. I chased a handful of Delia's Valium with half a bottle of vodka. I spent three days in the hospital, then two weeks in a psyche ward on suicide watch. I didn't… I didn't take it well."

That was an understatement. When she wasn't crying, she was screaming. While crying or screaming, she lashed out at the orderlies, refused to eat the gruel they pushed at her, declined the mandatory medication, exercised any and all acts of disobedience and rebellion allotted to her during those two hellish weeks.

"They gave me ECT treatments to calm me down. 'Treat my depression.' Six in total, three times a week._ It was awful. _I _never_ wanted it, I _always_ fought, and they _always_ won. Sometimes…" she trailed off a bit, playing with the ends of his hair. It was so much easier to talk to him when he wasn't searching her soul with those beautiful, beautiful eyes. _"Sometimes I think I'm still there," _she confessed in a thick whisper, tear ducts too drained to shed the crystals they wanted to. "That you're not _real_. That Adam and Barb aren't _real_. That my parents forgot about me and left me behind, and my brain's been electrified into mush."

She curled in on him here, resting her head atop his after having hushed her deepest, darkest fear into the woods. It had never been spoken before and likely never would again.

"I'm _pretty sure_ this is real, but if it's not, you're not allowed to let me wake up, okay? Keep me here with you."


	17. The Taming of the Beetle

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Adam and Barbara were never, ever going to see this side of him. In fact, no one had by now, except for Lydia. It's why this seems so indescribably surreal. The man with no rules, no heart, no plan, only schemes and selfishness, a dead walking nightmare was for the moment, perfectly tame in the lap of this living girl. As she holds him closer in her slim arms and reassures him, he who had never needed reassurance of any kind until he met her, he pushes deeper into the blanket. She had done it once for him before, reassured him, in a stilted conversation on her bathroom floor when he tried to poke holes in their unusual arrangement.

But, tucked against her, welcomed and embraced, needed – even after his atrocious behavior, or perhaps in spite of it, or perhaps because she knew. She knew, and she loved him anyway. The concept of that was the part that is reality-breaking for him. He was _happy_. As everything, though, it is bittersweet as Lydia goes on to explain her understanding of his statement. He lets her talk without interruption and without moving, the only noises accompanying her revelations the birds occasionally crying from far away.

Once Lydia finishes, there's a long silence. Her husband still doesn't move, excepting that his arms have squeezed tighter to her, as if anchoring himself to her against a tide.

"Suicide," he says after a moment, voice gritty and muffled, "Is really about convenience when it comes right down to it. I didn't plan mine."

That doesn't seem sufficient. What Lydia doesn't see are the monsters raging inside him, his heart aching as he tries to battle back the instantaneous desire to obliterate her parents yet again. They had tried to shelter her during their wedding to keep her from him. Who were the real monsters there? Once again, he bitterly curses the Maitlands from stopping his rampage. If only they really knew. Being buried deep in the Neitherworld and tucked in Lydia's sweet arms is the only thing that saves them from Betelgeuse's wrath.

"Yer as real to me as I am t'you, so we'll keep it at that," he murmurs as she curls around him. "I'll keep you here with me n' we'll make our own reality of it. 'M sorry all your friends in this reality are fertilizer, but the dead usually know how to party, y'know? No Frankenstein brain-treatments unless that's your _thing_."

The last is intended as a joke, clearly. Levity!

"We could stay out here all night, but if y'wanna take a bath I'll scrub you clean n' I won't try nothin'," he grunts still buried against her un-moving, "Cross my heart and hope to die. Oh, wait."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Reality was overrated. Lydia was _far_ more invested in the fantasy they were building together.

"That sounds nice," she sighed against him, still curled over his slumped form. She had been yearning for another dunk in that luxurious pool since her last visit. She'd already showered and groomed before crawling through the mirror but was due for another cleaning for obvious reasons. "I had _so much_ schoolwork to catch up on. I've been cramming all week. All I want to do is relax."

That had been her naive intent when she began her trek through the woods; a nice, relaxing picnic with her husband who she missed dearly, as well as a good heaping of some roughish sex. _What a fool she was._ Nevertheless, a glass of wine paired with one of his expertly rolled blunts sounded absolutely divine.

"Uhm…" Her legs shuffled beneath his bulky, unyielding weight. Something inside of her twinged at the movement "I don't think I can walk all the way back. Will you please carry me, Beej?"

There was a facet of ridiculous embarrassment in her request, as though she was somehow asking for too much, overstepping bounds or something silly like that. As though it wasn't his fault she needed to be treated like an invalid in the first place.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"I went too hard huh?" Betelgeuse remarks, vaguely at Lydia's request to be carried. It was easy – she was already folded atop him and he barely had to adjust their angle at all in order to simply stand with her hefted across a shoulder, blanket and all. "Hup!" he says, with a grunt. With a snap of his fingers the items that Lydia had brought all the way through the woods were easily transported back to the lighthouse. The pie, the scrapbook, and assorted were swiftly taken out of the way in that fashion.

"It wasn't my fault," the ghoul airily explains as he tromps off back through the tangled underbrush. He seems to know these woods well enough, and it is easy for him to slowly wind their way back with his wife, "Hadn't seen ya for a week. Didn't mean t'hurt you though. Well, maybe a little. But not a _lot_."

He ducks under branches with Lydia, floats over logs and across gullies. Before long, they've reached the small footpath that leads back to the lighthouse. "Bath'll clear ya right up. I'm still learnin'…ah…the limits, babes."

That's all he really offers in way of apology, though he's at least has the good sense to be genuinely sheepish about it. From the footpath he decides to short-cut the rest, using his juice to zap them both from the edge of the woods back up to the top of the lighthouse in a flash of light. Lydia finds herself in the cozy confines of her house, her castle, once again. "Yer red dress is back in the closet," the ghost remarks casually, with a wink as he snaps the spigots within the bathroom on with a ghostly gesture from afar. "I didn't _really_ shred it, I like it too much."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Oof!" Lydia couldn't help the distinctly unladylike noise that erupted as air expelled from her lungs, his shoulder lodging firmly into her tummy as he stood. "Beej," she whined, beating weakly at his back, "I didn't mean like _this_." He carried on, unconcerned with her half-hearted griping. Settling in on his shoulder was easy, broad and solid as it was, so she surrendered without further fight and allowed him to haul her back home like a caveman, offering half apologies for his brutish behavior.

"No more weird sex this weekend," she dictated in response, firmly into his back. "No beastiality. No threesomes. No whips, no chains, no ball gags. Nothing but missionary and cuddling for you, Mister."

As much conviction as this stipulation carried, there was a clear joke hidden in there. Betelgeuse didn't follow rules, and Lydia was a bad disciplinarian. Once they _poofed_ back home, Lydia squirmed until she was released, fed up with being trotted around like a sack of flour. She dropped the blanket without a second thought, but the reflection that greeted her in the bathing area gave her pause on her way to the bath.

"_Jesus Christ, B…" _She murmured at the sight of herself, cringing. Three trails of dried, cracked blood were caked around her torso and hips, smaller dots of dark red speckling her throat. Distinct paw prints marked where he had held onto her as he rode to completion. The cuts themselves were so thin and shallow that at the time she hadn't even been aware the skin had broken. Aside from the blood, smears of mud marred her knees and calves. The wild mess of ruffled raven locks was no surprise to see but managed to tie the image together beautifully. She looked like she _belonged_ with a caveman.

"If you aren't more careful," she warned with nonchalant flippancy, finally turning away from the jarring sight to sink into the pool, ready to wash it all away, "you're going to kill me."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Alright, alright," came the response at the time, good-natured as anything. Betelgeuse wasn't one to be dictated to, but it seems like he's making an exception for Lydia – in this realm, _any sex_ is good sex. Plus, it seemed like he hadn't scared her off of further sexual encounters this weekend, so he'll consider that a win. "Missionary an' cuddlin'. You got it."

But as Lydia takes stock of herself in the mirror, Betelgeuse looks up from where he's busily lighting a cigarette and also takes her in, raising an eyebrow. "You look like you were attacked!" he remarks, clutching his maroon vest in faux-horror, "Who could have done such a thing!? Some horny, disgustin' wild creature, probably."

He snickers then, leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom as Lydia maneuvers her way to the bath. The last of what she says makes his heart clench into his throat, however, and he nearly chokes on his cigarette. The statement is said with lighthearted dismissiveness, clearly not intending the reaction it causes within him.

He knows what happens if she dies.

Betelgeuse hasn't told Lydia exactly what the full nature of their arrangement is, but his soul is destined for _one place alone_ if she croaks. The real inferno seems a lot less friendly than the one filled with whores and the ghoul is not even remotely interested in trying it out. But over the course of many hundreds of years, he's racked up quite a complicated knot of favors, red tape and criminal behavior that has eventually stacked up into _last chances._ Lydia is not only his ticket in freedom, but her soul has been bound to his so long as she's alive – and that means an injunction on any sort of repercussions to his life of cheating the system and debauch. If she goes, he goes. Directly to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars. The ultimate punishment for breaking the ultimate vow.

"Heh," he says, swallowing the fist-sized discomfort in his chest, "Don't joke like that Lyds. You have a whole life to live. But, note taken, okay?"

Betelgeuse takes a long drag on his cigarette then and turns, foregoing ogling her in the bath to quash the simmering panic in his chest. Lydia can hear him turn on the television to something Neitherworld related, and the scent of weed soon drifts in from the bedroom.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_"Some horny, disgustin' wild creature, probably."_

This earned him an unamused side eye. "You're a _jerk."_

Oblivious to his discomfort and still somewhat annoyed by his glib dismissal of her injuries, she turned a nose up to his insistence that she "had a life to live." Lydia would be content to die now and stay young and beautiful for him forever. It was a far more attractive possibility than the _other_ option; growing old, watching him lose interest in real time, and eventually having to let him go. Maybe he'd let her keep the lighthouse, though if they built enough memories here together, she might find it too painful to stay.

"Sure," she murmured, submerging her shoulders and rat's nest of a mane beneath the steaming depths, hiding from the tortuous hypotheticals her mind was intent on supplying, _"whatever."_

The water was milky, frothing on the surface. Just as before, all tension and ache melted away the second the pond swallowed her. External maladies may have been soothed, but the internal storm raged. Thoughts of the inevitable _terrified_ her. This wasn't the first time she had tortured herself with musings of death and aging and the effects it might have on her relationship, but it was the first time she'd allowed the anxiety to intrude upon their time together. Betelgeuse must have been of a similar frame of mind or else he wouldn't have been so insistent she continue living. It was sweet of him to put his own selfish desires for a young, pretty wife aside for the sake of letting her live her life. How could she argue against the sanctity of life with a dead man? Much less one who had spent almost the entirety of his afterlife plotting his escape. She didn't have a leg to stand on.

A familiar dank scent itched at her nostrils and Lydia twisted in the water, letting her feet sink back to the bottom from the pliant, horizontal position she'd taken up while floating.

"Hey," she called loudly enough to get his attention, "let me hit that!" If some of his top-notch marijuana couldn't silence the cruel thoughts running through her head, nothing would.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

He was a jerk. This was no revelation to him. It earns her a faux-wounded, "WhaaAAaat?" though as he leaves as if he hadn't done a _thing_.

Neither one of them were currently aware of the other's struggle, but it was a relief for the ghost when Lydia called him up from his sprawled position on the bed to take a hit off the blunt he had going. Weed and tobacco always took the edge off. Liquor too.

His fate without her was a miserable one, indeed. He had put it out of his mind until now and was eager to distract himself as much as possible to get it _right back out_ where it belonged. His wife requesting he share in his abundance seemed good enough, and he rolls off the bed to re-enter the bathroom, wearing a cozy looking bathrobe with his initials embroidered on the front.

Betelgeuse saunters to the edge of the bathing pool and, in a puff of ghostly smoke, materializes the blunt before Lydia. It hangs there mid-air at the level of her lips. _Now that's service!_

"Wanna beer?" he asks, opening the one dangling from his alternate hand. _Conquistador_ brand, it seems, in a large metal can.

He settles himself down onto the edge of the tub, plunking both of his gross moss-covered feet into the water. He grimaces but then seems to resign himself to it – taking a long slow slurp on his beverage. The ghoul then studies Lydia, curiously. "If you could have any super-power Lyds, what would it be? Like, would you go invisible…or like, fly, 'r somethin'. What would you pick?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"No, thank you," she declined his offer of beer politely. "A glass of wine would be lovely, though. I like it dark and sweet." Never one to disappoint, with a grunt and a gesture Betelgeuse provided her with the requested drink, conjuring up a glass and bottle mid-pour to levitate beside the waiting blunt. _"Cool,"_ she praised the minor show of magic, marveling as though she hadn't watched him move the stars. Once the bottle was done pouring, it drifted out of the way and Lydia took the mind-altering substances in a damp hand each. Then, she came to settle on the bench beside his legs. His random, off-topic query brought a smile to her lips and a squint to her eyes.

"You mean like all the things you can do? I don't know… Let me think about it." Invisibility certainly had it perks, but wasn't she already invisible? Mostly, but not quite enough. Having experienced flying second-hand, she almost blurted that out but reigned herself in to contemplate the question further. Two hits of the blunt and a deep sip of wine later, she had an answer for him.

"Shapeshifting," she determined firmly, before expounding on her choice, "but not like… into other people or anything. _Animals_. I could turn into a spider and be invisible, or a raven and fly, or I could just spend all day as a cat and learn what that's like. The possibilities are endless." Since they were apparently playing twenty-one questions, Lydia pressed the game further and addressed a point that had more than once crossed her mind.

"What did you do when you were alive? Like your job?" Teeth digging into her bottom lip, big eyes searching for an answer before he could give it, she braved a guess. "I bet…" she began, smiling as though she had him _all figured out,_ "you were some kind of _lawyer_. Or whatever they called lawyers back in the stone age. You certainly operate like one."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Mmhm, like the things I can do," Betelgeuse rejoins and makes a phlegmy sort of snort to clear his throat or nose, or something as he idles above Lydia. He belches afterward, shortly, as she _thinks about it_ and takes another slow slurp of _Conquistador. Slob._

At her final answer, he squints down at her and grins. "Or you could become a werewolf n' terrorize your poor wife out in the woods, right?" he chortles and then considers. "Maybe someday you'll know what it's like. I haven't figured out all the stuff I can do. Maybe I can transfer some of this juice into you temporarily. That'd be pretty crazy, huh? We could drive Barb and Adam crazy _together_ babes! We could do a _long con_ where they think they've adopted a pair of stray cats, but it's really us, right? And then —-" he stops, face scrunching as he meets her leveled gaze. "—-Okay, okay, so it's not my best scheme."

As she turns the questions around on him, he looks vaguely discomforted, but Lydia's smile is difficult to resist. "When I was alive? Uh, oh…mmm," he fidgets, "I don't remember a lot, like I said. I wasn't good enough to get into the pearly gates and I wasn't rotten enough to get sent to the pit, so I figure I was pretty alright. I _wasn't a lawyer_ though, satan's tits Lyds, I know I'm not a good person but I ain't no bloodsuckin' leech!"

He considers for a moment as if trying to remember studiously. "I…." he hesitates, "…I vaguely recall bein' a couple things. Odd jobs. Sold things. I was a hatchetman for a while. Arson. Uh, traveling? I was a performer of some kind, there was a freak show involved…barker, I did a lot of barking. Now, y'ask me about the 1950s n' 60s I can tell ya somethin' – I was let out for a good ten years solid, _really_ got to live it up if you get my drift."

That would explain his affection for the parlance of that time period, at minimum. He's decided he's answered her question well enough and shoots another one at her. "Okay, here's a good one. If you could get away with _anythin'_, no repercussions, guaranteed, what would you get away with?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"What's a _hatchetman?"_ Whatever it was, it sounded equal parts comedic and homicidal. Lydia busied herself with washing and detangling her hair while he talked, after passing the blunt and polishing off the last of her wine. It probably would have been wise to drink it more slowly, but this wouldn't be her first questionable decision of the day. _"Barking,"_ she exclaimed, breaking into giggles that rippled the milky surface, "like _woof woof?_ Like Bubby?" The giggles evolved into teasing cackles that flushed her face even further, cheeks aching. "_God_. Maybe I really am a dog person."

"_Okay, here's a good one. If you could get away with anythin', no repercussions, guaranteed, what would you get away with?"_

Oh, that _was_ a good one. Her first instinct was to claim she would steal the Declaration of Independence, but that joke might've gone over his head. _"Anything…"_ she pondered aloud to herself, wading idly. "I'd probably go the eco-terrorist route. Take a page from _Fight Club_ and blow up all the credit card companies, erase the national debt. If I was having a really off day, I might plant my explosives under congress instead… _I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt, though…_ Eh. Whatever. It's an imperfect plan."

While Lydia was a big proponent of civil disobedience, she had never deigned to plot further than on a small social scale. Given his powers, she didn't know what she might be capable of. Absolute power corrupted absolutely, after all.

"For this next one, let me clarify that I want an _oral_ answer, not a demonstration," she instructed firmly with a decidedly _naughty_ smirk, paddling his way, coming to grasp his hairy ankles while she floated before him. In direct defiance of her disclaimer, her tasty, perfectly round bum breached the surface as she floated, as if to tempt further misbehavior. "What's your _faaaavorite_ position?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Hatchet men took care of stuff. Like, stuff that was legal, stuff that was sorta legal. Stuff that was illegal. I did that for a bit, but it was dangerous. If I knew then what I knew now, I'da died happily as a murderer instead of a fuckin' dope on a rope," the ghoul smirks, "But, I sold insurance for most of it, y'know. Things like that."

At her hysterics about _barking_, he sneers and laughs wickedly, leaning in on his knees. "From what I've seen babes, yeah - you're _definitely_ a dog person. The bigger the dog, the better," he leers, and then leans back again, "But yer close, it was like … _carnival barking_ – you've seen me do it. _Welcome-a to Wintah Rivah! Museum of natural greed; a monument to the bored businessman! Come on a little closaaah! Step right up!"_

He assumes the voice as if it hadn't been years since he'd done it and put the New York yuppies through the Deetz-Maitland's living room ceiling. He still finds it exceedingly humorous, too, by the scrunched look of evil delight on his face. The expression does not improve much as Lydia goes on to explain her dastardly criminal behavior, and he laughs again at her designs for bad behavior. It was cute. He slurps down a few more gulps of beer and itches his belly.

"There's two certain things in this world Lyds, that's death and taxes. I do like your concept of offin' the politicians though. Never liked those guys, never trusted 'em. True anarchy, that's the way to do it. No rules, every man for himself. Yer a fuckin' hippie though. You could also fill congress with a huge hose pumpin' the finest bio-degradable hog shit and have the same effect if you wanned to do some _real_ eco-terrorism. Pass me the blunt would ya?"

As Lydia paddles to him, handing it over and gripping his unkempt ankles, he grins. Usually, women are pretty eager to keep physical touch with him _firmly limited for some reason,_ so the sensation of Lydia being physical with any part of him, especially _anywhere_ near his moldy feet is more pleasing than she probably could ever realize. It probably helps, of course, that she can't see them under the water. But her ass coming up to bob at the surface, that perfect peach shaped rump hovering out of the milky water like an offering immediately captures his attention.

Her line of questioning, too, _well well well._ Naughty girl. Here he was, trying to _behave!_ Admittedly, he _was_ irresistible, he reasoned and the gloating expression that crosses his features says just as much.

"Ooouh," he hisses, sucking his tongue with a click. He waggles it at her suggestively then, "Well, an _oral_ answer doesn't eliminate anythin' babes, I can stay under that water as long as takes." One of the ankles she holds drifts forwards under the opaque water to gently glide up her side, drifting. "I haven't met a position I haven't liked. That bein' said, I've got a particular fondness fer _doggy_ style, cowgirl, and reverse-cowgirl. Second close favorite is desperate horny up-against-the-wall sex, that gets real interestin' when you're a ghost. Usually wind up on the ceiling…anyway, despite all the freaky shit, I'm a simple guy, Lyds."

His face scrunches mischievously, "Why, you wanna try somethin' out?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"_Maybeee," _she bantered back flirtatiously, giggling and swimming away when his clawed toes tickled her rib cage. "Maybe I'm just curious. Can't a wife ask about her husband's preferences without having an _ulterior motive?"_

Lydia was as clean as she was going to get. Just as before, she rinsed off in the shower, taking the time to play with the settings now that she didn't have a poltergeist or two pestering her. When she emerged from the steaming glass chamber, there was a sheer black lace robe waiting for her outside the stall. The sleeves were exorbitantly long and flowing, making the knee-length hem seem short by comparison. The girl she was a month ago would have insisted on some sort of underthings or nightgown to wear beneath it before trotting about in something so blatantly _sexual_ and _revealing_. This Lydia didn't give a damn.

Betelgeuse was found lounging in the center of the large, circular bed. His own robe was tied loosely, legs spread just enough to let her know that he was _entirely nude_ beneath the plush vestment. A cigarette had replaced the blunt, though there was a tightly packed, untouched glass bowl waiting on what had been established as her side of the bed, as well as a refilled glass of wine.

"Betelgeuse," she began with faux consternation, crawling across the sea of silk to take up mantle next to the well-stocked nightstand. "If I didn't know any better," she took a break mid-sentence to hit the bowl, "I'd think you were trying to take advantage of me."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

"SuuUUuuure, Lyds," came the all-knowing, leering response to _that_ question. Ulterior motives?! As she swam away, playing hard-to-get, he snickers and stands up from the pool, shaking his head. He admits, he likes _playful provocateur_ Lydia the most, so he leaves her a slinky robe that seems all too appropriate to her current _line of thinking._ The ghoul wasn't the brightest crayon in the proverbial box, but he wasn't _that dumb_ either.

Normally, he'd stick around to watch her in that shower but the ghoul has decided he's better off lounging on the bed and giving Lydia some space – that and the _potential_ of future engagements ahead keeps him fairly well placated. Replacing a glass of wine for her and packing a bowl was easy enough, he'd been rotten to her, utterly, and she could use some fun. He zones out at the news drone on the television, glurping down the rest of one can of beer, finishing up that blunt and moving on to a cigarette. This was _pretty nice…_ and for once it would appear he wasn't waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe it was just the weed talking.

As his wife makes her appearance, he gives her a _thoroughly approving_ disgusting sort of expression, that one where he shows all of his gross teeth, the tip of his tongue poking over a lower lip. Indeed, he was a happy slovenly husband at the sight of her, the robe barely covering his peculiarly strong hairy thighs, sprawled out like an over-fed cat, his jade eyes dragging the length of her bottom to top.

"Uh huh," he replies distractedly at first as Lydia slinks along the bed in the robe that barely could be called a robe, all lace and see-through. He snaps-to, however, as he realizes what she's said and not the movements her breasts made underneath that barely obscuring fabric. "Lyds, babes…" he cajoles, "…I've been tryin' to take advantage of ya since _day one."_

He leans in towards her very seriously, his brows knitted in consternation and he deadpans a hopeful, "Is it werkin'?"

He crooks a finger then with an outstretched arm along the pillows, expression splitting into a teasing grin, "C'mere," as he pats his robe-clad side using his unextended arm.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"_Is it werkin'?"_ Lydia about choked on her wine in response to his serious, no-nonsense tone and expression.

"Yes," she answered with a breathy laugh, diving into his arms excitedly at his beckoning. The strong limbs came around her tight, molding her firmly against him. _She was home._ For the time being, he seemed comfortable simply holding her. Profoundly content, happier than she had been since leaving him, she relaxed into his embrace; eyes closed, soft lips curled into an even softer smile, face buried in the cushy material of his robe so that she might greedily inhale his scent- _tobacco, fog,_ and that _something special,_ something uniquely him she would never have a name for.

"I missed you so much," she squeezed and squirmed herself impossibly closer, inching up his body until her nose was pressed against his mottled neck. A spot on her forehead tingled a bit from trailing across his wiry hair, so she nuzzled against some stubble on his jaw to itch it. "School is so _boring_. We're reading Lord of the Flies in class. I've already read it, so it's _especially_ boring, even more so considering Miss Shannon has the charisma and oration skills of a goose. Not only that, but most of my classmates are just completely missing the point. _Hicks_. They don't understand that being shipwrecked on a deserted island is not actually a vacation. Probably because some of them actually _own_ islands."

She trailed off, absently twirling some of his chest hair around her pointer finger. "Have you read it? I assumed you did, because of Bubby, but I guess you could've heard that name anywhere…" Suddenly, her thought process did a somersault off into completely nonsequitor territory, and she grinned up at him, clearly amused by something. "Hey, Beej," she began, excited for reasons beyond his comprehension, "why is six afraid of seven?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Something highly akin to what Betelgeuse imagines _rambunctious joy_ must be hurtles its way up through his chest as Lydia launches into his arms like an oversized kitten. _His kitten._ He growls in a decidedly happy way at her as he wraps her slight form up in his enrobed arms rapidly, perfectly content to have stayed with her pressed to him for the rest of his afterlife in that moment. Their sham-marriage was suddenly everything he'd ever hoped for and more. He said he was only gonna do it once…er, well, once _successfully…_ and he meant it. His grotesque hand strokes her silken, drying hair, his ruby ring swimming in the inky locks. He never wanted to let her go.

He can hear Lydia's deep inhale against the soft ridge of his over-plush luxury robe, and her muscles relax into him. His eyes lid in thorough contentment, the television casting a glow against them as the strange middle-light shifts to darker hues outside. Peace filled his rotten, stir-crazy body for a good long time as they laid there without moving. Eventually, Lydia squirms even closer and speaks, and apparently becomes tickled by the stubble that traverses his neck and chin. Was she using his stubble as some sort of itch relief? She was. It _felt_ like a nuzzle, and it makes him almost-laugh, his face contorting into something immensely humored by the adorable decision of it.

"I missed you too, like I said earlier. Meant it. I promise I won't launch out as some sort of horrible monster that brings you to a life 'r death moment every time I miss ya. ….Maybe only sometimes." He tilts his palm up and down, clearly teasing. "Lord of the Flies, yeah, I've read it. It's the one with the kids who go nuts and kill each other on an island right? Somethin' bout …. 'sucks to your asthma!' n' talkin' to pigs heads n' crazy shit. I think I hallucinated half that book on a bad acid trip once. It sounds awful the way _they_ did it, though," he frowns in sympathy to her, "Beelzebub is a demon of yore, I just like the name. Rolls off the tongue don't it? Was that in the book?"

He seems to only vaguely remember. "We could make 'em experience bein' shipwrecked on a desert island and see how fast things start to resemble the literature," he snorts, jokingly. "No resort fees! They'd love it. All the coconuts they can shape into shivs! We could film it. Who gets stabbed off the island first? Girls Gone Wild! We could charge! Pay-Per-Ghoul!"

As Lydia's train of thought fully derails, most likely due to the weed, Betelgeuse's brow rumples thoroughly at her subsequent question. He'd heard this joke before. _Somewhere_. He casts his gaze downwards, puzzled. "….I have no idea babes. Why is…six afraid of seven?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

In retrospect, their romp in the woods wasn't that bad. It was everything else leading up to it that left Lydia a sobbing, fearful mess of trembling limbs. She'd already forgotten the way she had cringed and tried to escape from beneath his hulking form, the memory erased by all that had happened after; the ruined, then salvaged picnic, the way she was able to find solidarity with him through their shared questioning of reality. These were the aspects of the day Lydia would rather dwell on, the things that would etch a place into her memory palace. She wouldn't remember the blood or how it felt when he sunk his talons into her, but she would remember the way he carried her home, drew her a bath, and saw to her needs. She wouldn't remember crying out in pain and wishing for all the world that he would _stop_, but she would remember the way he dried her tears and reassured her that _the pie was delicious, thank you very much._ She would _definitely_ recall with fondness the boisterous cackle she drew from his decrepit lungs with the punchline of her dumb joke- overheard from some even dumber classmates of hers. _Broken clocks were right at least twice a day._

"Because seven…" Lydia paused, holding him in suspense, leaning in closer until her nose was touching his, warm breath caressing his lips, _"is a registered six offender."_

The resulting guffaws were instantaneous and drew on for long, happy minutes. His laughter was infectious, and Lydia was especially susceptible to giggles at the moment, so she laughed too until she was a breathless pile of shaking limbs sprawled out atop his chest. Gathering herself and still letting loose a snicker here and there, she sat up until she was straddling his bare gut. The tie on his robe had loosened from all their mirthful jostling. Her own black silk ribbon was still tied in a neat, sturdy bow right on the curve of her waist. A firm tug would undo it, but Betelgeuse seemed content to ogle her nudity through the scant layer of flimsy, obsidian lace.

"You like that?" This was a rhetorical question. "Okay, okay, here's another. How many tickles does it take to make a squid laugh?" She didn't give him an opportunity to form an answer- _just in case he'd already heard this one-_ instead dancing her black-painted fingernails down the chub that padded his ribcage in an attempt to force laughter out of him. _"TENTACLES!"_

However, her efforts were in vain. Apparently, Betelgeuse was not at all ticklish. He just laid there, arms crossed behind his head, not bothering to protect himself and angling an eyebrow at her like she was the cutest darned thing he'd ever seen.

"Aww," she pouted, drawing back her attack and crossing her arms petulantly. "Not fair. You're no fun."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

"That's _awful,"_ Betelgeuse responds to Lydia's question if he likes her joke, "Of course I like it, babes." As if the laughter of the previous minutes weren't an indicator, or the lingering snickers between them both. They had connected in their shared bad sense of humor at least, which only got worse the higher they seemed to get. Lydia's happiness was his own – and admittedly he was often bad at registering other people's happiness…or caring much about other people's happiness. She hadn't fought him earlier in the woods, so she must have been a willing participant, right? Right. That's how his logic worked. If he could _get away with something_ that was just as good as _permission_. He saved her from the _real_ threat after all, didn't he? And he cheered her up after their peculiar animalistic tryst and took care of her as far as he could understand, which was _far more_ than any other one of his partners could have ever hoped to receive. He usually left women a wrecked disaster, happily booted half-naked and having to collect his things off the ground after being flung from apartments, told never to call again, until by and large he was left to the lowest rung sort of whoring. He had a _reputation_ and in the Neitherworld, word gets around _quick_. His particular sort of nastiness, however, seemed to be tolerated by Lydia, and it seems that he was at least trying to make an _effort_.

As Lydia straddles his beer gut he raises _both_ eyebrows, resisting the urge to pounce, instead folding his arms behind his head and seeing where she was going to take this. Plus, the view was particularly delectable, her soft curves floating amongst the barest of black lace and silk, pale skin tantalizingly on display in _all the right places._ Her second joke is laid quickly as she attempts to tickle him from her position atop him, ploy revealed, and he snickers as she pouts. "Sorry babes, that's the one place I can't get got. I'd make a tentacles joke but you said no more freaky sex," he teases.

He uncoils his arms from behind his head after a moment and slides his palms up Lydia's creamy thighs, unable to resist touching her. "I got one for ya. What's the difference between a tire and 365 used condoms?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Lydia indulged in some exploration of her own as he fondled her thighs, roving her hands up and down, side to side over his torso, shamelessly examining him in a way she'd never really felt comfortable enough to. Currently, all her guards were down. There was nothing to fear here. No move was wrong. His nipples were _particularly_ fascinating. They were violet in color, feathered by curly white-blonde hair, and had a slightly larger circumference than her own. They operated like hers too; soft and pliant until someone else's touch aroused them to hard pebbles. Was this an erotic caress to him too? She couldn't tell from his expression alone; just as devious as always, waiting patiently for her to request the punchline.

"Hmm… I don't know. Is it that you don't know how to change a tire?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Oh, he liked emboldened, playful Lydia, that was certain. Her touch was distracting, but Betelgeuse appeared stalwart to ride the punchline out. She was making his nipples stiffen idly, and it was suddenly driving him crazy.

"Nah babes," he laughs at her guess, albeit it was a good one. "It's 'cause one of 'ems a _Goodyear_ but the other is a _great year."_

He laughs, then, devilishly pleased with himself. "I could do this all day Lyds, I have a million of 'em."

A million or not, his hands had wandered on their own accord, seeking the soft bare flesh of Lydia's silken smooth buttocks. It wasn't fair, really, her touch was electric to him even though she was obviously simply being explorative. Living hands of such a stunningly sweet young thing traversing him like that, boldly, curiously, was guaranteed to get him going. That ache was returning with a vengeance, and though he had managed to suppress it he couldn't last too long in a situation like this.

The ghoul shimmies onto his elbows and then up into a half-way sitting position, careful not to jostle Lydia out of his plump lap. Mostly, it seems, he just wants a taste of her – those tender and succulent lips of hers are far too tempting to resist, and sorely he missed out on them while rampaging as a hairy horror. She's still too far from him though, so he gently clutches her silken robe to pull her forward slowly, a guttural hiss escaping his throat. _"Lyds…"_ he mumbles, almost pleadingly.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

The answer was _yes_, these were _definitely_ erotic touches in Betelgeuse's book. Familiar claws and callouses snuck beneath her robe unabashedly to squeeze her cushiony backside with a sense of gross entitlement. He _wanted_ her. _Again_. She shouldn't have been surprised considering their track record, but the depth of hunger he carried for her was a burden that had yet to cease amazing- or inflating her tragic ego. Well. Lydia was definitely amenable to letting him have his way once more, but not without putting in a little more effort. She was in too playful and defiant a mood to roll over for him; disagreeable for the sake of being disagreeable.

"_Beej,"_ she whispered back, grinning wide, teasing, holding just far away enough to keep him from tasting her lips. Instead, she ducked down to dabble a series of warm, soft kisses across his chest, ending with a soft nip to his jaw. "Do you _want_ something?"

Playing dumb was infinitely more fun than playing hard to get, and absolutely riled him more. He growled, darting forward to _steal_ her lips, but she didn't let him, pulling out of his reach yet again. So far, in fact, that the smooth head of his cock brushed against her slick, bare entrance. She gasped at the sensation, eyes widening innocently as though she didn't already know that he was rearing and ready to go. Then, she smiled an _evil_ smile, slowly snaking her arms around his neck for leverage, still denying him the privilege of a simple kiss. Daringly, she dipped her hips back, letting the fat leaking tip kiss and slide against her but never enter. This was a dangerous game she was playing, she knew, but that didn't make it any less fun.

"I _think_ you want something," she needled further, punctuating the faux mockery with another tortuous twist of her hips, another kiss that wasn't aimed at his lips, "but I just _don't know_ what it could _possibly_ be."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Oh, so she wanted to be like _that_, did she! Even though she surprises Betelgeuse as she ducks his lips, it isn't all bad – the sensation of Lydia planting those soft, delicious kisses down his neck and across his mottled chest leaves him _thoroughly restless_ and decidedly amorous. _Fuuuuuck_. She really didn't know how wild she drove him, and what a rush it was to bed her in any format at all. Hell, he took his _time_ with her throughout their relationship to get to this place – the ghoul who never afforded time for anyone or anything and relied almost exclusively on impulse and opportunities. Quick thinking and sleight of hand was his scam, relying on others being ever so slightly dumber and slower than he.

"You _know_ what I want," he grits, the first time at Lydia's obvious teasing. He goes to take her kisses then and is met with obstinacy, leaving him ungratified. Lydia was getting away with _murder_. Well, he had to hand it to the girl, she was a quick study and had picked up his awful tricks quickly. Betelgeuse didn't blame her for immediately using it against him, either. He would have done the same. His jaw tilts up pleasurably as her teeth make contact.

His back arches underneath her, tense and wiry as she bodily avoids him far enough to slide all the way backward and directly against his dick. He curses, a surprised and desperate noise pulled from his throat, especially as the pretty thing atop him gasps and looks _oh so damned surprised._ That expression shifts soon after as her lithe arms twine 'round his stiff neck, and his face scrunches as he realizes she's got him right where she wants him. _Denial_ is the name of this game, is it? Teasing him! Teasing him was like teasing a permanently frustrated lion.

_God damn,_ she felt good though. He _almost_ forgets to complain as the warm embrace of her slick folds slide up and down his length, her hips maneuvering the ruddy tip _almost_ just inside repeatedly to tease him without mercy. His eyes nearly cross, his hands clutching to her like a sailor in the middle of a tormenting sea, throaty noises of frustration rumbling and keening from his throat. "I _wanna_ pound the shit out of you, little girl." His own hips twist against her, the thick ridge of his cock meeting her thrust, rubbing at her as if making its own plea as he pants heatedly for her attention. "Right this _fuckin'_ second."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"Mmm," Lydia hummed, sucking in her lips as though she was _considering_ the merits of granting his request, and swirled her hips so that the head of his dick stayed trapped and stimulated between her swollen pussy- just at the threshold, but still denied entrance. "I don't _know_," she continued to torture, head tilted and brows furrowed as though she was having a _really hard time_ deciding whether or not she would cut him off a piece. "You've been mean to me today," she pouted like the wounded schoolgirl she was, "I don't think you _deserve_ it."

The desperate, downright needy sounds he was making made her feel powerful. Here he was- _this beast, this _**God**_-_ resorting to whining and keening for her like a pitiful animal. Despite the bounty of mercy that flowed from her oversized heart, Lydia wasn't quite willing to grant him the pardon he was practically begging for. Not yet. Slowly, deliberately, she drew her slick nether lips down, down, _down_, from tip to base, pushing him by his shoulders until he was forced to lay flat again and she was sitting upright, his sticky eager cock resting in-between the crevice of her ass cheeks. Just as lazily, she pulled at the pretty little ribbon on her hip until the knot fell away, black lace parting to reveal her to him fully. She calmed his greedy, searching hands, pulling them to the expanse of flesh between her hip and waist and lining his clawed fingers up with the three lines of matching light pink scratches on either side of her silhouette. Truthfully, they were healing rapidly. Much faster than they might on an ordinary human. Maybe it was something in the bath? She would have to ask him about it at a more prudent time.

"See?" This was all such a _farce_. Lydia didn't care about the scratches, nor was she the one actually in charge here. Maybe that's what was making this so much fun. "You said you would be _gentle_ and you _lied_," she admonished, gentle and sugary and without any of the animosity he both earned and deserved. "I think," she leaned in close, leaving his hands there around her slight waist. She stopped once she was hovering over his face, bare breasts pressed into his chest, "you ought to _beg_ for it."

Really, Betelgeuse should have been proud. She'd learned from the best.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

This was fully unexpected, and Betelgeuse was both overwhelmed and keenly delighted that this little protégé had been _slyly_ picking up his little domineering tricks this entire time. What a little naughty minx! Well, he always knew she was smart – annoyingly, frustratingly smart, always suspicious of his tricks and bargaining. She saw _right through_ most of his ruses. That's why the werewolf trickery had been so rewarding…he'd actually managed to truly _frighten_ her.

And here, she's quite thoroughly managing to put him at heel. He moans, arches, strains underneath her fitfully as her hips roll and push the plush lips of her heated sex against him so skillfully. He could end it in an instant, but where was the fun in _that?_ She deserved a little revenge, didn't she? _"Mean!"_ he cries out, voice immediately indicating he was going to attempt talking his way out of this, "Oh, haha, Lyds, that was…that was just an _enthusiastic cuddle…_ uh, mmm, _fuck—_"

His brain-matter was mush, and it only further decomposes as she forces him onto his back, drawing her mons against him and along his feverish arousal until it pops up between the glorious soft curves of her ass cheeks. That earns a strong whimper, it isn't right or _fair_ that she knows how to do things like this! Then Lydia does something that takes the pile of mush that is his brain and tosses it thoroughly out the window: the silken tie that keeps her just behind that sheer veil is pulled and lace is gently parted for him. The greedy hands that seek immediate and hungry purchase on her breasts are thwarted, caught in her own and guided back down to the place where he'd nastily gripped her in his meaty paws. He'd certainly left some beastly scratches there, marring the beautiful flawless expanse of her skin.

He appears ready to deliver a rebellious sort of retort at her insistence that he lied, but as she leans in over him and those delicious, pillowy little breasts hit his chest that thought is gone. He had indeed hurt her, despite whatever he thought. And then…she insists, quietly, sweetly, that he _beg_. His brain immediately throws itself into a revolt. Beg! _Him?!_ His brain then clicks on what she had said exactly – it was the _exact thing_ the nastier part of him had said to her in the shower.

"Ooooh," he hisses as the realization hits him. She was playing him with his own game. Nasty, tricky little thing! Well, she earned it. He made it good, and put on a wretchedly pitiful expression, _"Pleaaase…"_ the theatrical expression is rapidly replaced afterward with a scrunched, unpleasant one that is clearly riddled with angry impatience, "…and I ain't gonna ask twice." _Viper!_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

His plea was so comedically _bad_ she laughed outright at him, a tinkling merciless sound. The threat that followed was just the cherry on top as far as Lydia was concerned. He thought he could scare her, did he? _She would show him._

"You're not very good at this," she concluded cheerfully, pushing up and out of kissing distance, snowy breasts hanging just out of reach of his tongue's current ability. Then, her smile dropped completely as she reached behind herself to grasp his thick cock in a viciously soft palm. "You call that _begging?"_

Where had all this gumption come from? It must have been a direct result of extended exposure to Betelgeuse's casual villainy. He was proving to be a bad influence on her. Under his authority, she'd skipped school, stolen, lied, and disrespected her parents to the point that they were eventually driven out of their own home. Not to mention the fact that it was becoming increasingly easy to indulge her hatred of the general breathing populace. To be fair, _they started it,_ but simply enduring their disdain for her was no longer a viable option. She was _worth something_ now. The vile things he said were starting to _make sense_. Maybe Claire and Stacy _could_ use a deserted island vacation. Maybe Lydia was just high on power- and _fuck_, did she feel powerful. He would do it, too, if she asked. He would _kill_ for her, and more. Make anyone who had ever dared to even look at her wrong rue the day they were born. Luckily, Lydia still maintained the good sense to keep firm hold of his leash. Her grip tightened and she stroked, slicking her hand up with his own secretions and remnants of the sap that seemed to flow from her in a constant surge whenever he was around.

"I could beg better than that in my sleep," she continued to deride, circling her thumb around the ruddy tip without looking, taking perverse pleasure in the way he _writhed_. "I _have_ begged better than that in my sleep. But-" abruptly, she released him, inspiring a horrible growling whimper, equal parts barbaric and pitiful. "I suppose I should give you an A for effort."

With that, she leaned back in, maintaining a burning eye contact before joining their mouths in a soft, sweet, sinfully _short_ kiss, pulling away again when his slithering tongue came to lash at her lips. The look he gave her was so _mad_ she couldn't help but burst into another bout of suicidal giggles. _Silly, poltergeist. Tricks are for kids._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

That dark and desirous expression deepens as Lydia dodges his attention all the more, mocking his poor performance. She had _learned_, but who's tricks were these? She was far too good at them, and it wasn't _fair_. As she pulls fully away from him, he growls in horrendously frustrated complaint.

Lydia's teasing, too, gets right under his skin. "Ain't usually in the position to _beg_," cajole, convince, ply, implore maybe…but never _beg_. His nasty expression lifts into one of _mild concern_ however as her hand wraps around his weeping, throbbing cock again. _Fuck_ – just that touch alone made him question any resolve he might have had about resisting her. That and the strangely fiery intense look on her face… he knew that look. She _liked_ this.

Lydia draws from him a guttural noise, his whole body arching up like a drawn bow underneath her and practically lifting her off the mattress as she drags the soft tight flesh of her palm up his rigidity and strokes him. This was _visceral torture_. He cursed as she further derided his efforts, hissing and spitting like a trapped serpent. Then…she lets go. That is decidedly _worse_ than when she was touching him, and the noise he makes is perfectly disgustingly wanton for her.

"Okay, _okay_, please— _fuck, Lydia, kitten, babes…. please—!"_

Betelgeuse is only shut up once her lips capture his, but only just for a moment. The sensation of those damned succulent, pliant, _perfect_ lips are gone far too soon from his own, and as he attempts to devour them the little vixen atop him only pulls away yet again. Heated, passionate anger pools in his chest as she laughs at him, _giggles_ in fact. She was playing with a bonfire, now, and there's a lull in her plan. The opportunist spots it – she's lost her way in this little game and doesn't know how to proceed past the point of teasing him.

Where there once was a ghoul at her mercy there is now a predator – the snake she had trapped under her little foot for a short time for _giggles_ had had quite enough. So, she had learned, but not _enough_ to take this the whole way. Not all his tricks could be turned so easily. Lydia still giggling when he springs like a wound coil, snarling happily as he goes. He's not _truly_ angry, but he is quite thoroughly intent on flipping this little game on its head and demonstrating what large and in charge _really_ means. He upends her from his hips with a sudden motion, toppling her from her throne atop him, and he uses the advantage of his weight to pin her underneath him. His palms settle on her upper arms weightily, and he leans into her face.

"Alright, little princess," he pants, "You've had your _fun_ ridin' the _rodeo bull._ I could do all _sortsa_ nasty things to you, but I'm gonna keep it nice n' simple cause you said," he imitates her voice then, hoarsely,_ "No freaky sex! Missionary for you, Mister!"_

He roughly knees her thighs apart, his robe hanging on either side of him now, the tie thoroughly untethered. "I'm gonna give ya what you're clearly lookin' for, little sexy _rusalka_." His hips settle rudely between Lydia's soft thighs, insistent. One of his hands releases her arm in order to dig into her impossibly long black hair, and he kisses her fiercely, deliriously. He doesn't aim to hurt, for once, but his hunger is evident, his passions fully and deliriously enflamed by her efforts. He moans into her mouth, his other hand dropping to lustily pull her thigh until her leg is hitched upwards and he thrusts his hips without waiting longer, pushing the drooling head of his cock into the deep, wet heat of her sex.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"_Beeej,"_ she gasped laughingly as he used his superior weight and strength to take over, forcing her into a position she was much more familiar with. She had been having _fun_, damnit! Why did his stupid ego have to come along and ruin everything? "That's not fair! You're _cheating!"_

The accusation was inherently ridiculous, but true all the same. This was the best she could have expected, really, provoking him like that. Still, Lydia wasn't going to let this go without a fight. Squirming defiantly, brawling uselessly, she pushed back every step of the way, trying in vain to wrestle him into a submissive position. The struggle was futile, his seething, growling form immovable atop her, but it was definitely fun. Not as fun as poking and teasing and prodding him into a lustful rage, but the way she stubbornly writhed against him pushed their more sensitive bits together in delicious ways. The kiss he forced on her- _hungering, starving, biting, near choking her with his snaking tongue, meaty clawed fingers pulling her hair just the way she liked-_ had to be sacrificed so that Lydia could properly continue berating him. _How dare he!_ Full of obstinance, she wrenched away from the kiss, spitting out his tongue.

"Jerk! Bully!" The leg he hadn't forced up in preparation of his impending penetration drew back so that her tiny foot could kick him firmly in the butt. _"Sore loser!"_

"_I'm gonna give ya what you're clearly lookin' for, little sexy _**rusalka**_."_

Lydia gaped up at him, silly giggles dying. The dumbfounded expression was only exacerbated by his sudden and brutal infiltration of her person. That he would call her such a thing, that he would use a word like that was enough to pause her fight and in that split second he took advantage. Her husband retook her mouth in another searing, taking kiss while his lower parts did much the same, thrusting into her with deep, hard, quick strokes. Stinging slaps echoed through the room in quick succession as his hips rapidly smacked into hers. His need was punishingly, achingly _divine_, and in tandem with the nickname, she had no choice but to finally surrender.

Mythology and lore of all kind were of a special fascination to Lydia, Slavic and European in particular. The tragic sirens that haunted the waterways of cold northern countries, seducing unsuspecting men to their deaths had on occasion made their way into Lydia's late night readings. It was such a painfully bittersweet thing to call her. _She loved it. She loved him. She was his slave. Anything, everything he wanted was his._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

"Ain't _cheatin',"_ comes the coy response, clearly pleased at her laughter, "It's a shortcut. Sides, ain't fair how fuckin' good you are at _whatever that was_ so I guess we're even stevens, ain't we?"

As Lydia fights him, it only gets him further riled up. She knows he likes it, there's a part of him that roars to life with renewed and burning lust as she squirms, slapping at him, pushing and kicking, punching uselessly at his chest. He yelps occasionally when a hit lands fair and square, giving her the satisfaction – but inevitably he laughs wickedly as she gains no ground altogether. She was clearly enjoying herself though in resisting him, and he was all too happy to force his way onto her as she very earnestly was interested in having him do.

Despite being stronger and larger, she was definitely good at being _exceedingly_ wriggly and obstinate, and after she spits him out of her mouth and calls him names it elicits yet another wicked, happy laugh. He was _happy_ like this and so was she, both understanding his awful nature, both playing the same game. He _OOFS_ as she nails him right in the ass with her little foot, laugh turning into an amused snarl.

"Babes, I've always been a poor sport an' a sore loser…any other behavior might encourage a repeat performance, see." And he couldn't have her twisting him to her mercy like that again! No sir. His cock, however, was decidedly _all for it._ Traitor!

He catches her thoroughly off guard then with the nickname he has bestowed her, and as she gawps at him he overwhelms her. He was ready to drown in her despite his domineering position, he was always at her beck and call. Betelgeuse had nothing but need for her, desire, wanton and pathetic both, and as he is finally able to surge into her body with rapid snaps of his hips he is once again returned to the sensation that he may not be thoroughly dead after all. His sweet, sweet Lydia – he moans into her mouth, his tongue choking her throat and crowding behind her teeth. He wanted as much of him inside of her as he could manage, desperate, even as he abused her with the engorged thickness of his cock.

Her ghoul was always sloppy and rude and this is no exception. Deciding suddenly that he needs to have her in a different position, he relinquishes her mouth – this serves of course, to let her gasp for much-needed breath. Betelgeuse hauls the sweet girl off her back, pulling her against him and twisting her around until her sweaty back is pressed to his thick gut and chest. They both face the same direction now, and Lydia's creamy, lovely legs splay over his lap, spread apart by his thighs. One clawed hand hooks under her chin and against her graceful and fragile throat, stretching her against him so the back of her head presses to his shoulder and his lips can nuzzle at her ear. The other hand grips firmly at the soft curve of her hip, holding her in place – and once settled into the new position the fucking resumes.

From _this_ position, he can gently squeeze at her neck, just enough to choke her. He does so, his entire weighty palm almost fully enclosing Lydia's slim throat altogether. "You like bein' in control huh, kitten?" he grunts, the positioning made clear now – he could murmur directly into Lydia's ear in that gritty, throaty baritone. "Yeh like makin' me beg for that sweet, hot pussy you got, hm? Getting' your big bad daddy all worked up for ya…jus' so he'll _fuck you stupid n' sore_, huh?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Overwhelmed by his strength and perversion, intoxicated with pleasure, mind-altering substances, and a barely controlled lack of oxygen, Lydia could hardly hold on as he had his way with her. Her soundness of mind fractured with each powerful thrust, splintering ever further as his tongue slithered past her tonsils and down her throat— until she was certain she existed solely for _this_. What better purpose could she serve with this life than to be an instrument for his pleasure? Nothing adequate came to mind. Nevertheless, it had been fun to play pretend for a while.

She gave him all that she had, but it wasn't enough. It never was. As always, greedily, arrogantly, he wanted _more_. With rough, careless motions, he pulled out, flipped her over, and drew her back against him by her throat, raking up flimsy black lace to grip her hip and keep her ass bare and flush with him. He pulled until she was plastered to him, back arched over his gut and malleable limbs stretched over his lap to his liking. Only a thin layer of soaked, meager lattice separated her molten fire flesh from his— and _oh, was she burning up._ Normally pale cheeks were flushed red, entire body slick with sweat from the perilous struggle, his meaty palm keeping her breathless and heady with no end in sight. _It was wonderful._ Thin pale arms draped with shadowy filigree drifted gracefully through the air to draw around his neck and string her further along his hulking form, in direct contrast to his oafish gestures.

He came to whisper horrible, filthy things in her ear, nuzzling, all the while his hips keeping up a relentless rhythm beneath her. They pounded into her as he held her in place, bouncing her into his choking palm. The tighter he gripped, the more her internal muscles clenched around his violating cock, strangling him within her to the point that it was a battle to fuck any deeper. He showed no mercy to the resistance, digging his claws into her hip and forcing himself into her anyway. Lydia released stifled, gasping cries for him, sacrificing what little oxygen he permitted her to breathe in order to sing him praise.

"_Yes—!" _She answered with a worshipful, enthusiastic gasp, using what little leverage she maintained to help him along, push herself down onto his thick cock as he pulled, thighs stretching further as she was impaled until she was spread over him obscenely. _"You— fuck— me— so— good—!"_ Talking like this was also still new to her, but he asked her a very good question and a simple "yes" seemed insufficient. It was a miracle she was able to get words out at all from the way he was going at her, like a riled, aggravated beast.

"_Don'stop," _she choked, fingernails digging into his neck, liquid fire flowing through her veins. Her vision was glazing over, beautiful stars dancing across the strange lowlight that filtered her arboretum. _"Please— I'm gonna— ah ah AH—!"_

She flooded for him, each muscle tightening up into beautifully wound coils that wanted nothing more than to cling to him. His selfish hand swallowed the scream she tried to give, clenching down until muscle and cartilage shuddered beneath his palm and the shriek was orchestrated into something less smooth, but just as beautiful. Those strung tight tendons soon went limp around him against Lydia's will, proving her humanity. Drunk with sensation but quickly fading out, if he didn't let go soon, it was inevitable that she wasn't long for the conscious realm.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Had the ghoul known what was going on in Lydia's inner dialogue, he'd be _pleased_ with himself for causing such a thread of thought to exist. In fact, it would probably stroke his ego _wildly_ to know how all-consumed she was with their little tryst, though with the way she's responding to him now he's getting a vague idea of it…probably just as much as he deserves.

Oh, how Betelgeuse praises her as she breathlessly assents to his questioning. _Fuck_ she was hot, and as she arches for him beautifully, coiling her arms so lithe and graceful around his neck in what he perceives as a desirous gesture meant to encourage him he moans throatily to her. They had a chemistry that Betelgeuse had found in no other woman, alive or dead, in six hundred years. It was a _bonus_ that her pussy felt so _fucking amazing,_ especially as it clenches and pulls at him, turning his lower organs into molten fire. The throaty, guttural noises that rattle from his throat as he pounds into her delicious body are intense and plaintive.

"That's a good girl… _goddamnit…_ hah…" Lydia was so _heated_. She was flushed and sweating, her beautiful body stretched so sweetly for him, pleading for him even as he constricted her airway. Nothing was better than this – he was losing himself in her again, happily wrecked upon her golden shores.

"_Yesss…" _Betelgeuse hisses as her fingernails dig into the thick, muscular flesh of his taut neck. "I won't stop baby, cum for me," his teeth clench and he spits, "_Sing_ for me…nngh…that's it—" with that, she reaches her peak and gushes that warm, sweet fluid over the pumping shaft of his dick, her muscles milking at his cock insistently, squeezing and fluttering. The noise she makes, the way her body arches like a lick of fire in a blaze, he clamps at her throat monstrously and her song is sweetly punctuated by the physical restraint of his hand. She slackens, then, and he releases his palm quickly – he wasn't about to give her up to the darkness of unconsciousness. The slapping noise of his efforts continue, wet and thick now as they continue to ring out within the room.

The ghoul doesn't last much longer than Lydia. With a few brutal final slaps of his hips against her, he gives in, burying himself deep inside of her sticky, slick heat and orgasming _hard_. One hand clenches her tit for stability, the intensity leaving him gasping for air he doesn't need. It isn't enough – his head angles down onto her shoulder and he _bites_, claiming her for his own with the gesture, destined to leave marks as he floods her with ropes of seed. After the strong pulses slow to a trickle he gives her relief and releases his firm grip and his teeth, his forehead nuzzling up her sweaty nape and into her extravagant hair. Nothing else shifts or moves, his arms wrapping to hold her, his insistent cock still hard – but he pulls out, sloppily, high and buzzed from his peak. He cradles Lydia then, his touch turning gentle, but still possessive.

"Fuck…._fuck…_ Lyds…._Fuck…_. never ever had it so….fucking good…" his tongue wets his dry lips, "Mmh…baby, I wasn't lyin' … in the alley… you're the only one who can do it like this… for me, babes. I swear it. You're the only one for me. Yer all mine…"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Miraculously, Lydia managed to cling to a faint string of consciousness even as he brought her right up to the edge. Once she was released, she sucked in oxygen hard, gasping deeply with each savage thrust that brought about his peak. When he branded her, biting down hard and coating the inside of her womb with territorial aggression, he earned another shriek, this one unencumbered by greedy, choking hands. He held her tight in the seconds that followed his peak, stiff, heavy cock anchored balls deep, blunt teeth closed around a chunk of living flesh, threatening to break the skin. Then, all at once, his tension released, grip turning soft, bulky form heaving as though it was he that had just been choked to near incapacitation.

Still crawling back from the edge, she allowed him to tend to her while her vision swam. Sweet promises tumbled out of him in a clumsy rush, muscular arms with a cuddly layer of plush pulling and arranging her until she was cradled against him, both of them strew about the bed in a more classically comfortable position.

"I'm yours," she agreed at his avid insistence with lidded eyes and a soft smile, trembling fingertips gently tracing some of his more distinguished facial features, currently twisted into a mask of hungry reverence. A shadowy discoloration that perfectly matched the shape of his thick, meaty fingers was beginning to rise along the pale column of her throat. With time it would surely darken. The bite mark on her shoulder was already angry and violet, flaring with pain whenever she moved the wrong muscles. Lydia showed no intention of acknowledging any discomfort, instead content to lathe in his affection. He brushed continuous kisses across the tarnished flesh, pet her mess of half-damp, half-dry hair, and drew a calloused palm tenderly along the sweeping curves of her silhouette.

They were having one of their rare silences, neither of them too eager to break the preciousness of the moment with idle chatter. For once, the cruel voice inside of her was silenced. It was the same voice that liked to tear her down, supply an endless source of doubt to the validity of his feelings. Most days it sounded Like Delia, but today it had nothing adequate to say, no clever counterarguments to come along and ruin her hard-earned peace.

"You're still a jerk," she reminded him minutes later, once the rate of their breathing had calmed; hers to a normal pace, his to the usual _nothing_ she'd grown accustomed to. "And a bully," she continued to jab, unwilling to surrender _completely_, even as he cuddled her thoroughly conquered body. "And a sore loser. _And_ a cheater."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Betelgeuse was content. A deep, satiated, complete content that he had not experienced in generations. He was at _ease_ for once, especially as Lydia's gentle touch traverses the contours of his pallid face. Juno would be _hosting a party_ with how thoroughly the girl has gotten him wound around her little fingers, how completely his mischief was contained. His buddies would be thumping tables, red in the face with laughter at the very notion of him _settling down_, nevertheless finding peace within such an arrangement.

But here he was, curled up with this young living girl who was closer to the darkest parts of his heart, who loved the awful creature he was and was _actively learning from him._ As they lay there in silence, listening only to the rush of the waves far below he tended physically to her, affectionately in a way that he had never done with anyone before or since. It was _nice_. It was pleasant. It was _something people who weren't dead did._ The ghoul may be a demi-god of chaos at this point, but his desires were perfectly simple. Woe betides anyone, however, who interrupted this peaceful inhabitance.

As Lydia helpfully reminds him of his lesser qualities, he rolls his eyes open to squint down at her. "I'm as _pure_ as the _driven snow_, babes," he argues with an easy lie, "But if yer gonna go on like that…" he squirms his fingers against her belly and sides, under her arms in quick tickling motions. He doesn't go at it for very long, just enough to make her shriek and writhe for a moment or two. He settles back down afterwards, and snickers. "'Sides, what about you? You were about to get me to start sayin' shit like _yes mistress_, y'little viper. You're lucky_ I like it._ What other trouble you wanna get into this weekend huh?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"I don't know," she mused, slipping her arms out of the sweaty lace robe which had become intolerably uncomfortable now that her blood was running at a normal temperature. It was left beneath her to keep the mess of cum from reaching the sheets, though Lydia knew he would make it all magically disappear if she asked— _or resort to less sanitary methods of cleaning._

"All I had planned was the picnic. I definitely want to try out that pool at some point… Watch movies… Maybe break in the kitchen…" That PB&J seemed so long ago, the meager sandwich already worked off by all her extracurricular activity.

Her thoughts flew from her, discontent to stay in one place. There was _so much_ she wanted to do, but every suggestion that came to mind seemed exceedingly ordinary and decidedly un-fun. He probably wasn't interested in sitting around and playing _board games_ with her all weekend— the next humdrum suggestion that was on its way out of her mouth before she stifled it.

"But we don't have to stay in," she added in a rush, flushing slightly for reasons beyond his comprehension. "We could go out somewhere, look at more cool Neitherworld stuff. I'm adaptable."

Lydia was in no place physically to be going out anywhere anytime soon. She needed a meal and a good chunk of sleep to recharge before she would be ready to embark on another topsy turvy adventure with him. Nevertheless, if he waggled his brows, offered her an arm dressed in mischievous stripes, and enticed her with an impromptu night on the town, she would dig down deep and find the energy she needed to take it. She would follow him anywhere. Honey eyes scanned the living world watch that circled her left wrist, right next to the Neitherworldian one he gave her. The two watches were a vital staple to her look nowadays, never leaving her arm except for when she bathed. They were nearly as permanent as her wedding ring. After her last visit, she couldn't afford to lose track of time again.

"You've got me for… two more days. Until Sunday night, I'm at your disposal."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

It was indeed true that if she had asked, Betelgeuse would have performed either one of those cleaning tasks. He was _certainly_ not above sucking down his own cum from the delectable folds of Lydia's pussy and thighs, but it would have most likely absolutely grossed Lydia out with the _enthusiasm_ to which he would have performed such a thing.

As the girl mentions the kitchen, the ghoul practically hears her stomach complain. "Well, we should probably do the last thing first, eh, babes? Sounds like a pretty low key weekend. I approve. The best part about bein' dead is _you don't gotta do nothin'_ if the mood strikes. Don't gotta eat. Don't gotta piss. Don't gotta take a shit. Just eat whatever the fuck you want, and do whatever the fuck you want. Now that we've got this _huge house_ we can _really_ live it up and do _nothin' at all."_

Ordinary, it seemed, was perfectly fine with the ghost. Living a life of sedentary luxury was finally within his grasp, and he seemed just as eager as Lydia to get down to the business of _that_. Fortunately for her, nothing with him was actually ordinary at all.

"Mmm," he murmurs at her last suggestion, "I dunno if I'm ready to share ya with alla _them_ yet…" He waves the proverbial _them_ of the Neitherworldians away.

The motion of Lydia checking her Neitherworld time on his crusty old watch pleased him. She had picked up the entire transition quickly, even able to calculate how much time difference there really was. Idly, he was tempted to cause a temporal rift in order to keep her there with him past two days – but knew that the bigger, badder powers that be out there could still knock him for a loop for the attempt.

"…but I am ready to make a margarita and sprawl out poolside if you are. Let's hit the kitchen at least. I'm hankerin' for more of that silk worm pie." Betelgeuse reluctantly disentangles himself from his wife, giving her a parting grope as he stands and stretches, popping his spine audibly with a crackle and a loud grunt. With equal reluctance, he looks at Lydia askance over a shoulder, "I think bonehead and legs are doin' movie night, too, if you wanted to see 'em, too."

_Woah_ \- was that just _generosity_ that came out of his mouth?!

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Lydia perked significantly at the mention of his delightful roommates and their biweekly cinematic soiree.

"Do you still live with them?" It didn't make sense to her that he would continue residing in the roadhouse when he could just as easily haunt the lighthouse, but Betelgeuse didn't make a habit of doing things that made sense. Suddenly, it occurred to her that she hadn't even extended the invitation. According to the deed, this place was _hers_. Wacky Neitherworld laws being what they were, maybe the vampire rule existed here. Maybe he needed her permission explicitly and was too proud to say so. Maybe he was just afraid of change and would rather keep lurking in his dank, pest-ridden tomb-like bedroom. In either case, Lydia wasn't one to judge.

"You don't have to… if you don't _want…_ You could stay here," she called from the lounge after taking the steps to wipe the exorbitant trails of cum from between her legs sans assistance, picking through the swimsuits Ginger weaved for her, "what's mine is yours and all that…"

There were so _many_, in all different styles and colors; one-pieces, bikinis, lycra body suits fit for scuba diving, and strapless pin-up affairs that just screamed to be paired with a set of fuck-me heels. Eventually, she settled on a stringy two-piece that looked complicated on the hanger but was actually fairly simple to slip into. It fit perfectly, just like she suspected everything else hanging on the racks did. Once everything snapped into place, she could see that the complicated straps formed a pentagram over her chest. _Chic_. Ginger certainly had her pegged. She finished the look off with a sheer emerald robe— shorter than the black lace one Betelgeuse chose, but opaque enough to make her feel a little less naked as she strolled about her house.

He was already gone from the arboretum once she emerged "fully dressed" again. A loud whirring sound erupted from somewhere else in the house—_ a blender,_ she recognized after a moment. He must have been making good on his promise of margaritas then. Lydia had never had a margarita before and was eager to continue expanding her horizons, but was intelligent enough to see to her growing appetite first. She floated right past him as he fiddled at the counter with the blender, some chopped limes, and a bottle of what she was sure had to be top-shelf tequila. The fridge was well-stocked with _human food;_ fresh meat, dairy, fruits, and a plethora of other easily recognizable ingredients. Arched beautifully over the shelves from Betelgeuse's perspective, she started gathering everything she would need to make a delicious homemade guac.

"We could always break in the entertainment room," she called loudly over the buzzing blender so that she could be heard. "You could teach me how to play pool," she suggested innocently, juggling avocados. Despite her blasé, guilt-free intonation, the extremely likely possibility of him bending her over that pool table and plowing her until she _begged_ was not far from her mind.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

"Live with 'em?" replies Betelgeuse at Lydia's question, incredulously as she disappeared into the lounge behind him. She clarifies, extending the invitation for him to live with her. It was exceedingly sweet, and for a moment Betelgeuse tried to think of how to explain to her that _he had been living there for weeks now._ "Uh, hey, I'm way ahead of ya babes as it turns out. I've been squattin' yer pad for uh…since you bought it. So that's convenient, right?"

_Right._

"I usually take up space in the basement, y'know, since I figure that's outta the way, heh. Man cave n' all that, you know how we dudes are…"

With that, he figured making his exit was probably best and did so post haste as she went about the business of dressing herself. That way he didn't have to explain anything about the _nature_ of the basement space and _what_ he had converted it into exactly. As if to reinforce the concept of _not answering any questions about the basement,_ he quickly seized upon making the margaritas by hand using the blender. If there was one thing the ghoul was good at, it was mixing drinks.

He was fighting the blender lid as Lydia descended from upstairs, and as she passes by he catches a glimpse of her sleek pentagram swimsuit and the gauzy green sheath that surrounds it. For a moment he's left staring as if he hadn't just been pounding her into submission minutes prior, clinging to the blender as thoughts completely leave his brain for a moment. _How was it possible she was this hot all the time?!_ Betelgeuse is a man easily visually stimulated, and he makes a growl-like bark to himself in appreciation of Lydia's looks (_just_ resisting the urge to lick his fingers) before going back to attempting to focus on making the ice liquor slurry, expression still vaguely rendering disbelief.

He himself is dressed in black and white swim trunks, his open button-down shirt an unattractive magenta with green bone pattern. Chintzy sunglasses adorn the top of his head, and he wears lime flip-flops on his bare feet. It looks as if someone had taken pity on a tropical vacationer turned into a zombie and let him into a kitchen.

He finally is almost done with the blended mixture when Lydia arches and stretches over the cabinetry to reach various items. The ghoul blinks in bewilderment. How was he supposed to _get anything at all done_ with this level of libido and Lydia … _existing_ like that?! So he gooses her ass as she juggles handfuls of avocados, giving her a _look_. The blender noise stops, finally, and Betelgeuse pours the mixture into two wide-mouthed glasses.

"Don't tempt me," he said, as if reading her mind and then adds, "I'll teach you how I play pool, Lyds, sure. You keep up the cute outfits n' pickin' up a cue an' you might be ready to _really_ hang out at the Inferno."

He winks, and turns away from her with both glasses to head through the backdoor to the pool.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"Excuse you," she snapped back with faux annoyance, glaring over her shoulder as he copped a feel while she was powerless to fight back. "I'm already _'ready,' _thank you very much. In case you've forgotten, which you _clearly already have,_ I'm an Honorary Dante's Girl." Her title was announced with all of the honor and importance it deserved, chin held high with pride.

"I already hung out with the girls in the VIP room, somewhere that I have on _excellent authority_ you've never been allowed to go. Trixie said those horns would give me VIP access to any 'seedy den of sin' in the Neitherworld; free drinks, backroom access, bodyguards, the works." She paused here meaningfully, allowing the weight of that to sink in for him. "So the real question is, can you get over your 'pavlovian response' to them long enough to take advantage of _my_ connections? I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

Still teeming with bratty defiance and a rare sense of superiority, provoked by his condescension, she stuck her tongue out at him in a particularly childish gesture as he passed. As if she needed to learn how to party from _him_. About the only thing he could teach her about socializing is how to get _thrown out_ of parties. If anything, he was likely to get her VIP status revoked. He left the kitchen then, allowing her freedom to continue preparing guacamole without the distraction of a perverted, pouting poltergeist. Once she was done mixing everything together, she ran upstairs to retrieve the half-smoked bowl, balanced it together with the guac, and a bag of nachos— _brand name, as though he went grocery shopping for her—_ and brought the bounty out to present to her lazy, pool-side lazing husband.

Margaritas, as it turned out, were _delicious_. Maybe not as good as wine, but definitely better than beer. It was sweetly acidic, the perfectly salted rim providing a biting complement to the tangy citrus. With the way he expertly mixed and proportioned the different components of the drink, she couldn't even taste the tequila. It was definitely there, though. She could tell as her cheeks warmed the more she used the chilled slush to wash down her dinner of chips and dip.

"You don't have to ply me with drugs and alcohol to get me to sleep with you," she informed, slipping down next to him to stick her legs in the cool, clear water. Lydia had never seen a body of water so pure anywhere else in the Neitherworld. In direct contrast to what she said, she stole his lighter to hit the bowl. Where else but with him could she get away with doing all the things she wasn't supposed to be doing; smoking, drinking, sex, etc? She knew it was a ploy on his part, but that didn't make her enjoy partaking any less. "But by all means," she finished, downing the last of her margarita as if to punctuate her point, _"keep up the good work."_

With that, she dipped abruptly into the pool, denying her ears whatever answer he might have for her. As with most of what she'd done that day, her actions here were _playful. Teasing. Daring him to do something about it._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

The response earned her a result. Betelgeuse stopped dead in his flip-flops, head whipping around at her. The look on his face was amusement – just sheer, unadulterated, gobsmacked amusement. He whistles low. He'd always imagined that Lydia was somewhere on his level, but tonight's little dominatrix streak and now this _perfect attitude_ she was throwing at him was sincerely the icing on the cake.

"You got a pass to _every seedy den,_ huh? As a VIP?" the ghost's eyes glittered. "I dunno, we'll see which one wins out…but I like the way you think, Lyds. We could experiment for science _anytime_ y'like."

His face scrunches and he snickers merrily, resuming walking out to the pool. She stuck her tongue out at him, then, and he returns the gesture just as nastily. If he had been privy about her opinions, he would have said something about the _best part_ of parties is the part when they do throw you out. Betelgeuse instead flips his shades down, sprawling out onto a towel along the pool like a true bum, margarita in hand. It isn't long before his precious wife arrives with guac and chips and the bowl of weed. Sexy service with a smile, that's the kind of love he can easily accept.

"Honey," he says to her happily, "Yer perfect. Never change. Unless, y'know, it means more of this." He passes over the margarita to her as she arrives and happily snarfs down a few chips, licking guac off his chin as he makes a mess fairly instantly. He washes it down with the drink, and as she takes a seat next to him with such a statement he grins.

"_I don't?! _Stop the presses, well, I better take that weed back, huh?" he reaches for the bowl only to have her dodge him as she lights it, and he laughs wickedly. "Before this all it took was ice cream and an alley, I figured we could do with an upgrade."

And then, and _then_ to top it all off, she encourages _more_ delinquency on his part. He snorts loudly as she flies away from him with a quick motion into the pool. The water was a perfect temperature, as in, not too warm or too cold. As with everything in the Neitherworld, it was almost too perfectly balanced and unnatural. She wasn't getting away so easy, not when she'd given him a _raging_ boner from _that entire performance._ Without hesitation – this water didn't involve soap – he throws his open shirt off and jumps in after her gracelessly. He swims under the water effortlessly, no bubbles rising to the surface to indicate any exchange of oxygen which in practice is more unnerving than probably expected. He comes up to the surface near her like some sort of long-drowned crocodile, swimming ever closer.

"You keep up all that dirty talk and those fuckin' looks and we'll see who's workin' for who, princess. I'm already tempted to fuck you again against the side of the pool."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

The victoriously snarky expression she wore fell at the mention of "ice cream and an alley." _Jerk_. His flippant reference to how incredibly easy it had been to seduce her might have helped her decision to run away from him and into the pool. Lydia was only a _little_ surprised that he rose to the occasion, jumping into the pool after her, following each direction she splashed in— _stalking_. After all, it had only taken a light amount of good-hearted ribbing to get him into the shower. If she tried, she could probably trick him into a bath. If she asked _really nicely,_ maybe he would even let her wash that rat's nest he called hair. Not that she had any desire to do such a thing. It would probably just fluff out into a fried, frizzy mess. That or he would show up the next day with all new growths of mold and moss for her to scratch off.

"_Dirty talk?!" _She cried, jaw dropping at the mental gymnastics he must have performed to come to such a conclusion._ "Looks?! _What are you even _talking about,_ you psycho!"

Anyone who knew Lydia well and was aware of her love of Hitchcock films would know that this was a term of endearment. Still, his assessment that she was somehow trying to seduce him sent her mind reeling. No _wonder_ the man couldn't get enough! He thought everything was a come on! What _else_ had he misinterpreted, she wondered? It was a disparaging thought, one that Lydia quickly abandoned in favor of poking the bull yet again. He was asking for it, really. If he didn't want to be teased, he shouldn't give such hilarious reactions.

"First of all, _BJ,"_ she intoned suggestively, using a nickname she'd seen others call him but had yet to use herself for _exactly this reason,_ "if I was going to talk dirty to you, I would _talk dirty to you."_ The way she said it, it was almost a threat. "I wouldn't hide it under subtext." This was a lie, but at the moment, Lydia wasn't aware that it was. She was quite gifted at layering sexual double-meaning beneath innocent-seeming phrases. To her credit, it was usually an accident. Usually.

"Second of all, I can't help the expressions my face makes," she insisted with a decidedly haughty expression. "If it _just so happens_ to fall into one that you perceive as flirtatious, then that's _your_ problem. Not mine." Contrarily, her damned face and the impish expressions it insisted on seemed to be getting her into trouble right that very moment. She found herself continually backstroking to increase the space between she and her pursuing husband. He paid her nonverbal rejections no mind, closing the distance every time she moved away with predatory insistence. Inevitably, she was cornered in the deep end; wall to her back, poltergeist to her left and poltergeist to her right. _Nowhere to run._

"Third of all," she continued, flustered, gripping the edge of the pool behind her as though she might attempt an escape to land. This final addition wasn't a part of the original speech she had planned, but he was forcing her hand with the creepy stalker routine. "You _can't_ fuck me against the side of the pool because I say so. So there. Deal with it."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Unfortunately for Lydia, there was the sticking point. Betelgeuse could be coerced into many things, but no one was allowed to touch his beautiful long mane. Sure, he couldn't run a comb through it anymore, but that was pretty irrelevant. Valentino, okay?

As Lydia protests his assessment of the situation, he snorts. The use of his nickname as some sort of _intonation_ of some kind was further ridiculous, and the outrageous lies that flew from her lips afterward made his eyebrows arch up his head almost as far as they would go. His expression read a very firm _Really, Lydia Geuse?!_

"Oh, so it's _my_ problem if yer flirtin' with me. _Oh,_ uh huh," that was his re-interpretation of her statement. He continued to pursue her until she was backed up at the deep end of the pool. "Why're you runnin' away then? Look at you, yer backpeddlin' like a pro. 'S like yer _nervous."_

As she grips the edge of the pool looking quite taken off guard, the ghoul grins. He could tell she hadn't planned for this part.

"I _can't?"_ he laughs at her final refusal, "Babe, I can do anything I _want._ This may be your house, but this is my territory. How are you gonna be a VIP in a sleazy bar fulla assholes just like me if you look so _worried_ about certain possibilities? Hm?" he's teasing her now, and he reaches for her to feel up her legs. "But—" he leans in really close to Lydia's ear, pressing up against her just enough. "Luckily for you, I want more guacamole."

And off he swims, chortling happily to himself.


	18. The Dinner Party

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

_Jerk! Bully!_ Lydia seethed as he swam away from her, choosing guacamole over the hypothetical fuck she told him he couldn't have. Well, she _did_ make an excellent guac… and she didn't _want_ him to fuck her anyway! Right? His touches and close proximity had done well to weaken her resolve, as brief as they were. Regardless she already said he wasn't allowed and she wasn't about to backtrack on that so soon, no matter how many manipulation tactics he resorted to.

"Good!" She called to his retreating back, just as flustered as before. "Because I _hate to break it to you, sunshine,_ but _no,_ you _can't_ do 'anything you want.'"

Stubborn to a fault, she chased after him once he was a safe distance away, eventually coming to pout and glare up at his dripping form as he worked on demolishing the last of the guacamole. Lydia didn't care how much of a _cheater_ or a _sore loser_ he was, he didn't get to threaten her with more sex, deny her claims that he wasn't allowed to, and then pretend that he didn't even want it in the first place!

"That's not how life works and I'd venture to guess that for the majority of the dead, that's not how the afterlife works either. There are _rules_ and _standards_, Mister 'I-don't-have-any-rules.' Universal guidelines that humanity has no choice but to adhere to— _don't give me that look, I don't care how many bugs you eat, you're still human—_ has no choice to adhere to because— because— don't— what are you doing?! _Stop that!_ That's one of those things you can't do!"

As usual, Betelgeuse paid no mind to her protests and continued doing what he wanted anyway. In this instance, what he wanted to do was add a handful of live crickets to the guacamole, using his filthy hand to stir them into what was left of the mixture. Granted, Lydia was done eating anyway, but she made that and what if she had wanted more? She didn't, but that was entirely beside the point. He didn't even ask! _Rude!_

Thoroughly incensed, she gave up on him, swimming to the opposite end of the pool to float and hopefully calm her impromptu rage. Idly, she laid atop the surface of the perfectly temperate water, arms and legs spread just so, hair curling out in every direction around her. She was a pretty sight and might have resembled one of the _rusalki_ he classified her with were it not from the hard line to her lips, brow stuck in a constant twitch of annoyance. She probably wasn't even aware that she was grumbling aloud.

"… _dig through my garden for hours… make you a stupid pie… see if I cook bugs for you again… jerk…"_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

She was _frustrated._ He'd be smirking if he wasn't trying his damnedest to remain as dead-pan as possible, finger putting those delicious crickets in the guac with an easy stir of his fingers. It was damned good guac, and the ghoul at least had the _vaguest_ of common sense not to directly argue with the girl who made it, despite all her best efforts to encourage one. He stonewalls her, instead, not meeting her pouting face as she sulks at him on the side of the pool near his legs.

He does, however, look up from his project of sucking down the rest of the green mixture as she swims away in a huff. He knows, internally, that she doesn't know _what_ to do with him – as so many before her, he was an impossible, rude, disgusting mixture of male ectoplasm. She wasn't entirely wrong – there were rules. He just hated them, and he _personally_ had no rules of which to speak. The rest were an _imposition._ Betelgeuse was a virulent anarchist – every man for himself, but especially him.

That being said, he also knew that Lydia was _young_ in many aspects, and even though she didn't know it she was currently reacting to the fact that she had denied him her body and _he had agreed to that boundary_ – a rejection of sorts. She didn't like it, that was perfectly obvious to a ghoul who was accustomed to playing a large number of psychological games with the emotionally compromised and vulnerable.

He wraps up the rest of the guacamole, belches loudly, wiping his hands on his chest and belly to get them clean enough to grip either side of his head. In an easy motion, he removes it, handling it as one would handle a beach-ball, and with a yell of "Hey Lyds! Catch!" he tosses it at his wife as she lies on her back far from the pool edges. He can hear her fussing out there in the water and has finally decided to do something about it, it seems.

The rest of his body saunters off to one of the lounge chairs, pulling it nice and low and setting up with a tanning screen that will…do literally nothing to adjust his pallid complexion, and with his head missing it will probably only do that nothing vaguely to his chest. But sometimes, appearance is everything. The head, splorping into Lydia's hands should she catch it, makes a noise as if it's clearing its nostrils.

"C'mon babes," he implores, "You _know_ I'd forcibly fuck you on the side of the pool if you _really_ wanted me to." This was probably not the right thing to say, but he's not the best at these … talks. "I just wanted to see what y'did if I _didn't._ I was just messin' around."

He bares his teeth in a little snickering sort of smile, but it's a genuine expression from him. "There's no need to insult a guy, jeez. What's _really_ the matter, huh? Usually, you bear the brunt of my teasin' better than all this. Things were goin' good!"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Lydia floundered rather gracelessly when he tossed his head at her; trying and failing to catch it out of reflex and then losing her balance as a direct result, her own head ducking and sucking in pool water through the struggle. She emerged coughing, only to make a dash for his cranium when she saw it loll until he was floating face down. He wasn't going to drown, she knew, but that didn't ease the surge of instinctual panic that swelled at the sight of him floating there all dead and decapitated and stuff. Still coughing, nostrils burning, she held him high above the ripples, fingers threaded into the slimy hair behind his ears. He was just fine, like she should have known he would be, and Lydia kicked herself for making such a fuss.

"_You know I'd forcibly fuck you on the side of the pool if you really wanted me to."_ She flushed terribly at this, hard expression softening. He was just playing with her and she was being a brat, wasn't she? That wasn't right. She should always be nothing less than kind and sweet to him. He'd done so much for her, more than she could ever hope to repay. Where did she get off pulling an attitude with him? _"There's no need to insult a guy, jeez. What's really the matter, huh? Usually, you bear the brunt of my teasin' better than all this. Things were goin' good!"_

"I'm sorry," she conceded with a pitiful frown, looking properly ashamed of herself. Paddling toward the edge, she tried to balance his head upright on the concrete, but the gore beneath his neck was uneven and unwilling to cooperate with a flat surface. No choice but to hold him then. She gave up on trying to settle him somewhere polite, instead kicking off the wall to swim absently, ghoul's head toted dutifully.

"Nothing's wrong," she insisted, features twisted unconvincingly. "Everything _is_ good." Why did that sound like such a lie? Who was she trying to convince here? "I don't know." Each answer came one right after the other with increasing desperation. What if she proved too high maintenance for him and he called this whole thing off? Changed his mind, decided he didn't actually love her and filed for _divorce._ That suddenly seemed a very real and terrifying possibility.

"I take it back. You have permission to fuck me, you absolutely _can_ do whatever you want, and you're _probably not_ completely one-hundred percent human." A sweet, stolen kiss to the tip of his greasy nose underlined her sad little pleas for forgiveness. "I was just upset. _I didn't mean to be a bitch. _Please don't be mad at me."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

He was indeed just playing with her. Even when she was ranting at him, he was just _playing._ He was so accustomed to people being upset with him that her anger didn't even truly register as _real_ until he could tell she'd had _enough_. As she tried to manage his head, he garbled and laughed as she flailed around with him in the water. He'd surprised her, which was the intention, but he didn't mean to almost drown her either. But she seemed sufficiently startled! She tried to set his head up on the side of the pool which didn't work out too well, and he winced and squinted with interest, blinking at her curiously.

She finally just took him along with her back into the pool, and totes him along. _There,_ that was better. He could see her features somewhat from his position, at least, and he looked at her carefully as she replied to him. _Nothing's wrong._ That was a lie. Also the second thing she said was a lie. While her lying was relatively impressive and could sham the Deetzes, she couldn't sham him as easily face to face.

"Mmmm," he replied, looking altogether dubious, those jade eyes scanning her intensively. She lifts his head to her and kisses the end of his nose. It was sweet and made him smile, but his expression was _altogether suspicious._ "C'mon Lyds, you can _talk_ t'me. I give you hell 'cause that's all I know how to give sometimes." He looked vaguely uncomfortable. He was not good at talking about his feelings. In fact, he was barely in touch with his own. "I mean, I _know_ all that last stuff, that's why I didn't say nothin'. You ain't a … you're not that, come on. I'm not mad. But I think _somethin's_ on your mind. Was it the Dante's thing? You know you're my girl, I wouldn't let anybody touch ya in a seedy den babe, 'cept me. What's mine is mine. I like spookin' you a bit, but I never mean nothin' by it, y'know. Can't be water on the brain, I have that—can you uh, tilt me sideways speakin' of which? I think I got some water in m'ears—"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"I don't know…" She repeated helplessly, searching her mind for the answers he wanted. Conceding his request for a head tilt, she turned him this way and that, shaking gently until he seemed adequately satisfied. His reassurances made her feel all sorts of warm, fuzzy feelings inside, chasing away the sudden torrent of discontent that had found her. _My girl. Wouldn't let anybody touch ya 'cept me. Mine is mine._

"I guess I'm just…" she paused, finding it just as difficult to be frank with her emotions as he probably did. "Scared."

She knew he liked hearing words like that, even if she didn't necessarily mean it the way he preferred. It was more difficult to admit her fear now than it had been earlier in the woods, shaking and sobbing hysterically into his furry chest. There was nowhere to hide here. His face was right there, in her hands, and putting it anywhere else would be too rude for Lydia to allow.

"… that I'll mess up, or you'll…" Her throat constricted, gaze averting to stare at the mess of rotten ligaments hanging from his thick neck. _"… change your mind…"_

This conversation had gotten too heavy. Pulling herself out of it, compelling the terrifying hypotheticals from her mind, she forced eye contact again, countenance twisted into a plea. She didn't want to cry. All tears would do is solidify the point she couldn't bring herself to speak aloud; _that she was too difficult, that he would be better off without her, that he was wasting his time._ Hopefully, he could see the _please_ in her gaze and wouldn't push the matter further.

"Can we just have fun again? I _was_ having fun, I promise. It's just— you know… _stupid girly shit._ Hormones. PMS, whatever." _Please dear God, don't let my period come along and ruin this weekend._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

_Scared?_ Well, that wasn't anything new, exactly. Betelgeuse had scared Lydia a number of times just today, on purpose. One of those times was particularly nasty. But _this_, it seemed, had nothing to do with that. He waits for her to continue, making that expectant face he wore when he wanted to scream _well!? Spit it out!_

Upon revealing her fears, he gave her something relative to bafflement for an expression. She was _worried he'd back out?!_ He looks left, and then right, as if he was on some sort of hidden camera television show, and then looks back at Lydia.

"Babes there's uh…there's no messin' up with me, okay?" he attempts to incline himself but fails, his neck and gore wriggling. "I'll remind you that uh, you're the alive one here and I'm the dead guy. I'm _lucky_. And believe me, if anyone's gonna screw anything up it's gonna be me. Okay? So stop worrying about it. We have a _deal_. I don't back out on deals, babes. And I'd never back out on you. Yer like… the best thing that's ever happened to me and I swear to you I ain't lyin'."

At the last part of what she says about returning to having fun, a hundred little spider-like legs burst from the end of his gross throat, flailing around until they find purchase on her shoulders. Betelgeuse's head wrenches away from her happily using those as leverage, carried along by the horrible spindly insectoid assortment until it hits water, the awful things carrying him along like a disgusting buoy.

"Sure thing babes!" he calls out as his head 'swims' back to the edge of the pool. "Wanna grease me up with tanning oil? I promise I'll _behave."_

The way he says the last word is extremely indicative of _not behaving whatsoever._ The eyebrows waggle hopefully as the spindly mess of legs carry the head up the side of the pool, clattering him back up to his body until it's in reaching distance of his arms. It's then that he puts down the tanning reflector in order to grab it from his spot on the lounge chair. Betelgeuse smashes it back on between his shoulders with a horrible _CRUNCH. Sexy._

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Lydia didn't necessarily believe that there was _nothing_ she could do to chase him off. She was erratic, dramatic, and immature— nowhere near as sophisticated as he seemed to think she was. Nevertheless, she was a good, obedient wife and if he told her to stop worrying then that's exactly what she would do. In front of him, anyway.

"You'll _never_ screw things up," she insisted with unshakable faith before stealing another kiss, this one directly on the lips. Could it still be considered stealing when he returned it as passionately as he did? Probably not. The revolting way he scrambled away from her and back to his body certainly lightened the mood, inspiring a surprised _eep_ followed by a bout of giggles from his startled wife. He was _silly_ and she _loved_ him for it.

"Okay," she agreed readily to his suggestion, smiling at his antics, already wading across the way by following his head's lead. Humbled by her embarrassing emotional show, she didn't even pause to question everything wrong with his idea. He couldn't _tan_. Even if such a thing was possible for him, there wasn't any sunlight out. Not to mention that ridiculous lie he tacked on at the end— he certainly wouldn't _behave._ Lydia didn't care. She would continue to feed his delusion as long as he fed hers. Soaking wet, her hair reached her ass when she emerged from the pool, inky strands clinging to her back and shoulders. The bottle he handed her was Banana Boat brand. _Zero SPF, dark tanning oil,_ the bottle read. This alone was hysterical, but Lydia was good to him and bit her lip to stifle further laughter.

"Lay down," she implored, crawling over him and straddling his derriere once he acquiesced. His back was significantly less hairy and moldy than his front but still layered with a strange combination of muscle and chub that Lydia found delightful to touch. "I've never done this before," she warned, dripping a generous amount directly onto his skin, "so don't expect much."

Her hands were tiny against the vast expanse of his back, and she couldn't help but think that he would probably be better at this than she was. Judging by his heavenly foot massages, she probably wasn't too far off the mark. He'd done so _much_ and been around for so _long—_ it was hardly surprising that he was good at everything. Undaunted, she smoothed the bronze oil across the offered flesh, kneading once he was adequately coated. She paid special attention to his lower back and neck, doing her damnedest to work out the stubborn knots he probably died with. It didn't look like they were going anywhere, but that didn't stop Lydia from trying.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

At Lydia's assurance he'd never screw things up, that was a _big_, and _difficult pill_ to try and choke down. He screwed up everything. Or, well, _everyone else_ screwed up everything for him, really. Maybe now that it was just him and his teenage bride, it would be the paradise he'd always hoped for. It certainly was so far.

Lydia actually laughs at his little head-trick, which pleases him. That was the response he had hoped for. Equally, he could have grossed her out and that would have been just as good. The ghoul had no preference – good or bad, the attention was still the same. And he loved Lydia's attention. He was so accustomed to being on his own, kicked out, tossed aside like some sort of grubby, problematic flotsam. But here, with her, he was none of those things. She was actually _worried_ he'd leave her. The very idea was _ludicrous_. But it did indeed leave her open to suggestion, and Betelgeuse would be lying if he didn't notice and approve.

Her easy agreement to rubbing him down with oil for a good suntan, too, was evidence of her teenage mindset – so eager to repair she didn't notice any of the inconsistencies with the very idea of it. It was unclear if _both_ of them were delusional but Betelgeuse seems thoroughly set on the concept as if he tanned all the time. For the dead, sometimes, it was the _going through the motions_ that kept them grounded. Filing nails that wouldn't grow, tanning skin that wouldn't brown and combing hair that wouldn't become any less tangled seemed to be some of them for Betelgeuse. For the Maitlands, it was probably making breakfasts they wouldn't eat, or sweeping floors that wouldn't clean, or sleeping in the same bed as if they still had to do such a thing.

The ghoul was obedient as Lydia seemed to be in an easy mood to indulge him. This he was always willing to take advantage of, certainly. He gives her freshly shimmering, wet body a momentary appreciative ogle before lying down on his belly.

"I dunno babes, you'd never sucked cock either and you're a real fuckin' pro, don't sell yourself short too quick," comes the smug reply to Lydia as she downplayed her capabilities. The oil felt nice, but her hands felt oh so much nicer. That and her weight atop him, her body against him, which was a sensation he had yet to tire of. The caressing way she kneads at his poor muscles, stiff from strangled stress as he died, are at least eased in his mind to her touch. He purrs a throaty, _luxuriant_ noise in appreciation, those dark eyes closing.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

The rest of the first night of their weekend together passed without further incident of note. She massaged his back, he refused to behave— as predicted— and then massaged her feet in apology. He did _other_ less innocent things to them as well, but he was so deeply grateful to her afterward, how could she complain? They never did get around to playing pool. Drunk and drowsy, she fell asleep poolside and nude after horse playing to her heart's content, before her sweet, loving, attentive husband carried her back to her tower and put her to bed. Whether he stayed up later or crawled in behind her was hard to say, but he was there when she awoke; snoring loudly, limbs sprawled uselessly across the sheets, all except for the arm he was using to anchor her to him.

Lydia had never seen him asleep before. Not once ever in their entire relationship. _It was precious. She loved him so much. He was so cute._ Overcome with affection, she savored the morning quiet and snuggled closer, cheek to chest, her thigh tucked up over his leg. Did he dream, she wondered? Did any of the dead? This was one of those questions Adam and Barbara refused to respond to when asked. Maybe they didn't know the answer. Lydia herself hadn't been plagued with nighttime apparitions since he came back into her life— with the exception of the filthy wedding fantasy her imagination conjured up several weeks prior. Bad dreams used to be a nightly affair for her, but no more. _Her hero, her lover, her King_ had chased them away. She didn't know how, but he did. He must have. There was no other explanation, and Lydia didn't believe in coincidences. Not anymore.

How could she? They were so clearly _meant to be._ Every shitty thing that had ever happened throughout her short life was a necessary and vital stepping stone on the path that eventually led her to her husband— her one true love. This was no humdrum coincidence. Theirs was a love contrived by a higher power, maybe even one beyond Betelgeuse's gratuitous knowledge and experience. Lydia's heart was so _full_ and _happy_, if she had the means at her disposal she would have written him poetry. As it was, his arm was heavy, his cuddles were addictive, and she had no intention of leaving his embrace any time soon. Of course, her opinion changed once she felt a very familiar part of his anatomy waking up before he did; hard, smooth, and already leaking against her soft inner thigh. He grumbled inaudibly, lips smacking, fingers on her hip flexing, straining just so beneath her before falling back prone.

_Hmm…_ He certainly thought it was okay to molest her in her sleep. If it was okay for him, then it was okay for her… _right?_ In either case, she very highly doubted he would complain. Carefully, she trailed her touch along his weeping manhood beneath the sheet, never gripping him fully, just exploring. Eventually, curious fingers swept down to brush over his fat, hairy, testicles, somewhere she had yet to touch in a _hands-on_ way. This _absolutely_ got a reaction out of him, though he still didn't wake. An obscene groan ripped from his throat, claws releasing her to dig into the sheets, angular brows drawn together, and his snoring lost its rhythm before falling away into wheezing sounds of gratification.

Encouraged and finally free from his trappings, Lydia slid down his body until she was face to face with the object of her fascination. Emboldened, she wasted no time in cleaning his pre with her tongue, still gently caressing his ballsack as she worked. It was just as delicious as always. When she slipped him fully into her mouth, sucking in a soft coaxing manner directly from the source, his noises became more heated. Talons came to rake through her sleep-mussed hair, but he still hadn't formed any discernible words yet. Was he even awake? She hoped not. It would be nice to get away with _taking advantage of him_ for once.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

The sleep that Betelgeuse was having was a deep one. His body didn't need it, but ghosts still could perform the function admirably as a habit. Despite it gaining him nothing, these breaks and pauses also didn't harm him any, and so he indulged because it seemed like the proper thing to do when one was trying to respect circadian rhythms of an alive person.

He snorfled and grunted as Lydia cuddled him, his subconscious registering a pleasant reaction to her affection even if the rest of him was, pardon the expression, dead to the world. However, her warmth, her proximity and the sensation of her thigh slung up against his leg eventually registered to his brain as well. Whether he was awake or not it seemed that his morning gesture was to greet her and her lovely affections with a straining erection.

Whatever dream he was _potentially_ having was pretty good, it seemed, with the way he was already drooling onto her leg, hands twitching for her restlessly before he falls back into a deeper sleep.

Lydia was, indeed, free to roam.

And roam she did. Once she reaches the apex of her curiosity, that turgid, thick length surges under her careful attentions. She leaves him breathing heavily, restless in his slumber, especially as she caresses him just so. As if on instinct his hand pushes into her hair once that sweet, warm mouth of hers sinks so deliciously onto his aching arousal, and he mumbles something that doesn't register as words quite yet. He was still not fully awake and it seemed that he would solidly stay that way for some time, but his body was _definitely_ attempting to encourage her on its own. His hips roll slowly, firmly upwards, his back arching. He wasn't going to last long with the way his imagination was clearly providing the source of what she was doing to him in his subconscious dreams.

"…yea baby…" he mutters, voice thick with sleep, "…just…li'tha…aaah….mm…"

Another heated moan escapes him, followed by a restless, pleasured, _"Fuuuuck…" _breathed out through his nose.

His thighs had spread wide for her as if the man was _eager enough._ His face crunches in his sleep, nose wrinkling, a frown of lust affixed on his features. The hand in her hair tightens but hardly anything that would be a firm grip – his sleepy state prevents it. His breath starts to hitch inevitably as she sucks on him in that talented innate way she knew how to and his legs draw up just a bit, the rest of him writhing for her. Lydia can feel his cock swell and stiffen even more than it had been, that sweet nectar eagerly flowing in thick bursts over her tongue. He's _close._ He's also waking up somewhat, it seems, in the height of his hazy arousal. "Mm… _mmmm?"_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia's devouring of his cock grew more voracious the closer he came to consciousness. _She sucked cock like a pro._ Like a _fuckin' porn star._ She was _the best._ Betelgeuse had said so enough times by now that she _believed him—_ filthy liar that he was. That belief fed into a surge of confidence that only served to make her better. Urged on by his sleepy encouragement, his half-formed praise, she sucked him off like she _meant it;_ head bobbing up and down his length hungrily, pantomiming motions she'd made in the past when he was in one of his moods and charging the way, but of her own volition this time. Then, she was able to recognize now, she had been _sloppy_. Unrefined and trampled by his hunger. Not that there was anything wrong with sloppy, but there was something to be said for the merits of a blowjob with class.

And this was _classy._ She still felt like a whore, but now she felt like an expensive one rather than a cheap, convenient fuck. Like one of the women Delia didn't know— _or pretended not to—_ her father bought whenever he took one of his "important" business trips back up to New York. As far as Lydia was concerned, those women _had it made._ A couple thousand dollars a night just to put up with attention from boring businessmen like her father? Geniuses, all of them.

_This was empowering._ At that precise moment, drunk on power, puffy lips slicking all along the veiny girth of her husband's cock with indulgent slowness and depth, Lydia decided that if she ever saw Delia again she would tell her of her father's dalliances. The monstrous bitch probably wouldn't believe it, but the look on her face would be gratifying enough. The mental image alone was enough to inspire a cruel, wanton moan. Had Betelgeuse craned his neck up, he would have seen his beautiful wife on her knees between his legs; back arched deeply, luminous ass cheeks high in the air, greedily sucking down his cock with shameless determination while her eyes rolled back in pleasure at her own callous thoughts.

He was close. She could tell. They had danced this dance enough times by now that Lydia was familiar with his moves. Like pulling the trigger on a gun, she squeezed his balls _just right_ while simultaneously swallowing as deeply as her current position would allow. Betelgeuse choked. The hand tangled up in her hair found its strength and pulled tight. Rich, bittersweet flavor exploded over her tongue as he busted down her throat. She stayed right where she was, sucking and sucking and sucking with increasing strength until he was done and she couldn't taste his sticky sweet cum anymore, before releasing him with a pop. His cock was barely wet, her vacuous cheek muscles having cleaned him of all the evidence that this had even happened.

High on power— almost _cocky—_ she crawled up his heaving, panting form until she was straddling his belly before leaning down to plant a sweet kiss on his forehead, mindful of the fact that although she _very much_ enjoyed the flavor of his cum, he might not.

"Good morning, sleepy head," she greeted with a candy-coated smile, _glowing_, as though she was the one who had just been woken up with expertly administered head, not him. "Sweet dreams?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Lydia was legitimately _really fucking good_ at this. Betelgeuse was a consummate liar and cheat, and all the things she had called him earlier, but if someone was suckin' your dick like she was, there was no need for anything but pure unadulterated enthusiasm.

Betelgeuse couldn't logically remember the last time he was woken up to something like this. Or, really, if he ever _was_. He certainly doesn't remember a time when he was warm and fuzzy, cuddled into rich sheets and a comfy bed being given one hell of a wake-up call by someone who legitimately loved him. Fuck, no, that had never happened.

As he rose towards wakefulness and the peak of his orgasm, he grumbled further encouragement to Lydia, his hips rolling, yearning. The burning, throbbing heat was flooding into his brain now, fully bringing him almost around to consciousness as his little wife went around _playing him like a fiddle_. Her mouth was doing things to him that he hadn't imagined possible for someone who had just gotten started with this sort of thing. It was like she was _possessed_, but he was fairly certain he hadn't done anything like that to her…lately.

A throaty growl rattled up from the ghoul's throat, indulged, slimy and heady with pleasure. Lydia could have done anything to him at that point and it wouldn't have mattered. Asked for a divorce, stabbed him, robbed him, slapped him across the face. He would have put up with anything just to get her to keep sucking down every inch of his cock _just like that._ She kept bumping the fleshy, ruddy head of his arousal at the back of her throat, swallowing him up as if the most lascivious thoughts were driving her. Whatever sin was within her at the moment he was eager to capitalize on, the fingers in her hair twitched and clutched, sleepy mumbled happy noises escaping the ghosts' dry throat repeatedly.

Her soft fingers found purchase on his heavy nuts, demanding their goods with an encouraging pressure of her palm. He doesn't know exactly _when_ she picked that little trick up, but it is _achingly good_ and it throws him over the edge. With a raw noise, he cums hard into her mouth, clawing at the sheets ferociously with the hand that isn't buried into her hair and yanking at it. He was awake now, fully, completely, those jade eyes flying open and his expression reading a thorough amount of utter surprise. She rides him through the multi-stage orgasm he seems to be experiencing, his throat tight, her skilled suction not letting up for a moment until she leaves him breathless and making incoherent half-formed curses. The girl _works him dry,_ getting every bit of his thick sticky essence and nearly leaving his dick without any evidence she'd even been there in the first place.

Blindsided, dizzy, thoroughly thrown for a loop the look he gives her when she finally crawls up atop him to bid him good morning with a soft kiss, he chokes at her in reply, still trying to catch up with _what the hell just happened to him._ She was like some sort of sexual angel, the strange half-morning light exploding a halo around the back of her head as she leaned over him.

"Uh," Betelgeuse said intelligently, his hands immediately roving her, sliding over her curves, touching as much bare flesh as he could, "Y-yeah—" what had he done to deserve this sort of thing? Was he still dreaming? Did he finally get a ticket to the pearly gates? Was this _heaven?!_ He spotted the green still mottling his flesh and frowned. No, it wasn't heaven, he still looked the same – corpse-like, clearly. He blinks up at Lydia in pleasant confusion, at a loss for words for once. Eventually, though he stutters, still caressing her, "That was a _hell_ of a wake-up babe. What…ah…what inspired _that?_ That was…hoo baby, that was the hottest wake-up I've had …uh, ever, I think…"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"Noooothing," she sing-songed in a lilting way, smile growing somehow _brighter_ at his sleepy accolades._ It was blinding. _If his teeth weren't on the verge of rotting from of his mouth already, they would certainly be on their way out soon with how sweet she was being to him this morning. "You were just laying there all sleepy and cute, and then you _poked_ me. I couldn't help myself. I've never seen you _sleep_ before."

Every sleepover they'd ever had seemed to end with her falling asleep first only to wake up after him, or on less fortunate occasions, finding him gone completely. To see him passed out next to her like a grumpy, moldy bear had been _adorable_. How could she stop herself from taking advantage?

Insatiably, he continued to rub and caress at her, running calloused hands all along her sides, his still hard length prodding at her butt as she straddled him. However, Lydia had a routine she liked to follow and if she didn't get up now, she _just knew_ they would roll around in that bed all day. So, tragically, she slipped from his embrace to adjourn to the bathing area; brush teeth, then hair, wash face, and apply moisturizer.

"Which sounds better?" She called from behind the sheer crimson curtain that provided a sham form of modesty from the rest of the arboretum, foot hitched up on a counter so as to more easily massage cocoa butter into her thigh. Finished with her task, she emerged, crossing toward the lounge to pick her outfit for the day. "Pancakes or omelets? If you provide the bugs, I'll mix them in for you."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

As Lydia finally pulls away from Betelgeuse he moans with a still sleepy, frustrated huff. "I'll remember to fall asleep more often," he says, almost muffled by the pillow he's rolled partially into. "If that's how yer gonna go on about it. Get back over here so daddy can take advantage of you."

The last part is barely audible and he clearly isn't willing to _pursue_ chasing her down, instead pushing himself up into a sitting position lazily, staring at the curtain Lydia has disappeared behind. Even in silhouette, her legs looked tasty enough, and the show is short but lovely. He simply watches her move about the room, raising an eyebrow at her last question. "Makin' me breakfast too? Shit, I musta earned some really good karma…"

What _did_ he do to deserve this? He's retracing his steps now. This is _suspicious_. He's in the middle of trying to figure out how he wound up here, ensconced in a tender love-nest out of a semi-forced marriage of inconvenience. Maybe, just maybe… _something had worked out for him._ That seems….wrong. Like it was _too easy._

"Insects are in the third pantry from the left, top shelf," the ghoul mutters, still in a state of happy bafflement. "Uh…omelets?" he works his lips around a bit, nose crinkling. "Thanks."

He needed a beer. A morning beer. Itching his moss-spattered belly, he wanders off down the stairs, hauling on a pair of grey undies as Lydia goes about getting dressed. He mutters to himself, absently, as if attempting to figure out the spot where the girl _thoroughly hooked him._ She had him now though, and all this _nice stuff_ she was doing for him was both muy excellente and also making him decidedly uneasy.

Betelgeuse was in the middle of hooking a beer from the fridge when the phone rang loudly. He slammed his head into the top of the shelving in surprise, growling out loud expletives from the shock of pain from it. _Who the hell was calling them?! Who had their number?!_ Like a thoroughly grumpy bear who had been interrupted in the midst of hibernating, the ghoul shuffles off to the skull-and-bones shaped phone. He picks it up with a distinct frown. _"Whozzis?!"_

"Oh uh, hiiiiya Bee-jay, it's Ging…we was jus' wonderin' if—"

"LYDIA!" comes the sudden yell from the ghoul, interrupting the spider on the other end, "IT'S FER YOU!"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

_What would go best with omelets_, Lydia wondered as she perused the designated cabinet. Eventually, she settled on fire ants, thinking that the slight crunch and spicy flavor- _she assumed-_ might contrast nicely with the softer, rubbery texture of mushrooms. The dress she chose for the day was part Lolita, part rockabilly. It was backless with a cinched waist and black silk ribbons that looped around the neck to form a halter top. Lydia had put her copious hair up into a neat ballerina's bun to show off the pretty bow tied at her nape. Red roses with black leaves bedecked the soft fabric, its puffed out knee-length skirt flowing about her legs pleasantly as she moved about the kitchen, humming absent-mindedly.

The sound of a telephone going off alarmed her nearly as much as it did Betelgeuse. _She had a landline here? Someone had her number? Who? What did they want?_ This line of internal questioning was only exacerbated by her husband's abrupt, annoyed announcement that whoever was on the other end wanted to talk to _her_. Specifically. Beyond curious, yet more than a little hesitant, she abandoned whisking eggs in favor of investigating further.

"… Hello…?" She began shyly after taking the old-fashioned, wall-mounted receiver from his grubby mitt.

"_Why hello ta you TOO, Miss Lydia! Beetle-brains been treatin' you okay? Me n' Jacques ain't seen ya in a while, we was startin' ta get worried."_

"Ginger!" Lydia exclaimed brightly in surprise, enlivening at the realization. _Of course._ Who else would Betelgeuse so nonchalantly pass her off to, possessive caveman that he was? "Yes, absolutely, he's been wonderful. A perfect gentleman." She aimed a wink at the lurking Betelgeuse while saying this, earning a sour look while he sipped at his morning beer, scratching at his bare gut. He was quite slovenly this morning, in a charming way that made Lydia want to crawl back into bed and snuggle with him. In contrast, she was impeccably put together, ready for the day. "Thank you _so much_ for all the clothes. Seriously, they're so, _so_ beautiful. I can't thank you enough. You're so talented."

"_Well gawrsh," _Lydia could practically feel her magenta blush from the other side of the phone, and it only made her smile bigger and sweeter, _"it was my pleasure, gorgeous! Anyways, me n' Jacques was gonna have a movie night and we was hopin' maybe you'd wanna come join us."_ There was a pause. _"It's kinda quiet 'round here without BeeJay playin' pranks n' makin' messes to clean up." _The somber quality of her tone broke Lydia's heart. Ginger should never, ever be sad. Then and there, she took it upon herself to make an executive decision regarding their plans for the rest of their day.

"I know," she returned _almost_ conspiratorially, turning her back on her husband and twirling a strand of hair hanging in front of her ear, too short to fit in the bun, "why don't you and Jacques come over to our place and we'll host movie night! Then we'll have enough people to play board games! I can make snacks and Beej can make drinks and it'll be lots of fun! The address is _666 Creeping Cove…"_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Betelgeuse was always slovenly in _some_ way. His clothes never quite fit him right, either over or undersized, his hair was a permanent rat's nest, and this morning he was happy to slump around the kitchen in nothing but very "well-loved" looking boxers. Indeed, his mottled gut and wiry hairy places like his chest and armpits and legs are on full display. To anyone who wasn't Lydia, this would be a fairly _upsetting_ state to see the ghoul in. Betelgeuse himself of course, would vehemently disagree.

He belches, back in the main part of the kitchen and leaning on the fridge like the lazy delinquent he is, slowly slurping down that morning beer as Lydia talks to _the roommates_ on the phone. He occasionally makes faces because he can _guess_ as to what Ginger is asking her, especially regarding his behavior. What about worry for _him?!_ What if Lydia was _beating him every night?!_ …he grunted, mind wandering at the idea of her beating him _off_ instead. He misses the part of the conversation of course where Ginger actually admits to them _missing him._ He's the worst sort of friend and he doesn't deserve them whatsoever.

Fortunately, too, for Lydia as she conspiratorially turns away from him, the ghoul is distracted by his own imaginings and isn't paying attention to what she's doing on the phone. Like inviting his former roommates to their little love den and giving them their address. No, he remains oblivious, vaguely groping the front of his boxers, chuckling perversely and taking another long swig of _Conquistador_.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Plans established, Lydia returned to the kitchen to resume cooking breakfast, a bounce in her step. However, the sight of Betelgeuse lounging on the counter, picking at the open canister of fire ants imbued a facet of nervousness to her motions. He didn't really like his friends all that much, did he? She already knew the answer. _No._ What if he was upset with her for inviting them over? What if he wanted this weekend to be just them? She really should have consulted him first.

If he noticed her sudden disquiet, he didn't say anything. "They miss you," she imparted unprovoked, sautéing omelet fillings, avoiding eye contact. "Ginger didn't say it like _that_ exactly… but I could tell."

The more Lydia thought about it, the more certain she became that he was sure to have a negative reaction to the spur of the moment arrangements. _Stupid_. It would be better to break it to him gently— _talk him into it._ Seduce. So, she waited until the plate was fully dressed— fluffy three-egg omelet, six strips of floppy bacon with just the right amount of crisp, and a tall glass of orange juice that she hoped he found as nostalgic as she did— before dropping the bomb.

She settled the plate in front of him like a proper, obedient wife, the grungy ghoul already throned up at the head of the table in the formal dining room. It seemed wrong to eat in such a grand room when he was dressed like _that_, but Lydia wasn't about to question him.

"So Ginger and I were talking," she began unimportantly, casually, making light of what she was about to say. However, nerves won out, dampening whatever "bravery" he thought she retained, and she stuffed her mouth full of egg and mushroom in lieu of continuing. The brief interval only delayed the inevitable, though. "And I thought it would be a good idea if we had movie night _here…_ So I… invited them to come over tonight… if that's okay with _you…_?"

Finally meeting his gaze, she glanced up from her plate, eyes large with hopefulness and just a tinge of fear.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Fire ants licked off the fingers was a fun treat. They were like little spicy pops of flavor, and Betelgeuse is careful to _stop_ groping himself before indulging. Fire ants and anywhere but his mouth are a bad combination. He's grateful when Lydia returns to the kitchen, and no, he does not particularly seem to register her unsettled silence. As she tells him about his roommates' state of missing him he almost laughs loudly – instead, he muffles it to a disbelieving snicker and makes a very curious face at her.

"Didn't say it like that huh? I think yer projecting, Lyds. They're probably throwin' a fuckin' party with me outta their hair … er…uh, you get my meanin'… legs? Bones? Fer once."

As she slides him his perfectly made breakfast, he happily digs in. Despite not needing food, this was _delicious_. He'd eat anything you want him to eat, and swallow anything you want him to swallow, but this was better than a fly milk-shake or dog meat any day of the week. It _was_ nostalgic, especially the orange juice. He also didn't seem to denote his scummy level of sloppy dress in such nice digs, but that was most of his attitude showing. Wherever Betelgeuse was he lowered the level of class significantly.

He's in the middle of eating a good slice of omelet when Lydia drops the bomb that she actually _invited the roommates over._ He almost chokes on is food, but since he hardly needs to breathe he simply glorks it down his throat like a vulture instead.

"No." Comes the first firm, direct answer. "Absolutely _fuckin' not."_

He's annoyed. Extremely annoyed. But, considering her plying of him, her sweet wake-up, all of the things she'd done for him over the past day or two and more, he pokes at his food disparagingly. With a growl, he hisses out his teeth. "But hey, it's _your_ house babes. You get to say who comes and who goes."

He's not looking at her then, but he instead takes a large swig of orange juice. "So 's fine I guess." He looks at the drink and then mumbles, "Beetle orange. Beetle breakfast. Beetle drink. So good at pinning the fangs on the snake, so bad at charades. I get to pick the movie."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"_Absolutely fuckin' not."_

Lydia's shoulders fell. Her gaze dropped to her plate, but she didn't proceed to eat any further. Her appetite had vanished. She would just have to call them back, then. Apologize for being presumptuous, explain that this weekend was supposed to be _just them._ Really, it had been rude and thoughtless of her to invite them in the first place. They were going to be so disappointed. The pale slope of her shoulders collapsed even further.

But then, after several minutes of silence, he… _surrendered?_ Was she hearing him correctly? She was! He was _changing his mind._ **Wow.**

"Really?" She huffed, breaths shortening with excitement again, beaming at him from across the table. "Are you sure?" She continued on quickly, not giving him an opportunity to retract. "Oh, _thank you,_ Beej! Of course, you can pick the movie! It'll be fun, I promise! You won't regret it!"

* * *

A doorbell that mimicked the sound of a high-pitched shriek echoed throughout the lighthouse come midday. Lydia was busy in the kitchen again, throwing together finger-foods while Betelgeuse offered no help and did his best to distract her. This was the best she could expect from him. It was flirting— the only way either of them knew how. He was adorned in bold black and white stripes again at her stubborn insistence, despite his counterargument that Ginger and Jacques had watched him lounge around in "less than this" for years.

"_This is different," _she'd argued, _"it's like… a dinner party! But better because we're hosting it, not Delia. Don't you want to be the host with the most, too?" _As always, she got her way.

"Ginger! Jacques!" She greeted them both breathlessly at the door, taking the fresh batch of cookies and bottle of wine that they'd brought as gifts before accepting hugs from both. Despite the hairy, leggy, bony quality of them, they were full of warmth and love, and Lydia _just knew_ she was in for a great night. "Come in! I'll give you a tour!"

"Oo la la!" Jacques exclaimed upon crossing the threshold and taking in the grandiosity of the inner decor. "Bee-atle-joos! You picked zis? I 'ad no idea you 'ad such… style! Eet eez… _magnifique!"_

Lydia laughed, a happy, heartfelt sound that reverberated through the grand foyer, transforming the lighthouse into more than just a beautiful palace. It was a _home_. "He has his moments," she defended her husband with poise, honey eyes narrowing on the ghoul in question knowingly. "After the tour, I was hoping we could play a board game and then watch the movie."

There was a _seemingly innocent_ pause before Lydia went forward with her suggestion, an almost imperceptible gleam of wickedness flashing across her gaze before disappearing completely. "Is everyone okay with Monopoly?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

_Fun?_ He won't _regret it?_ Oh, Betelgeuse highly doubts _all that_ but happy Lydia dumps a whole lotta dopamine directly into his worm-filled brain. The look he gives her is probably a mix of things, and a weird sort of nervous, trying-to-be-supportive smile puts itself on his face. _Ugh. The things he does for this girl…_

* * *

As evening rolled around, Lydia had managed to negotiate him into clothes, besides. She was getting good at talking the ghoul into things, and he was good at disrupting her best efforts to make completed canapés. He kept trying to eat them once she'd finished them, or make them crawl off their plates, and eventually, she had to chase him off to get dressed with a spoon.

Sulkily, he eventually took to lurking with a beer and a smoke within the living-room as the roommates made their entrance. Perching like a crappy gargoyle on the back of one of the couches, he shrugs off Jacques compliments.

"'S alright. Roadhouse was a dump 'fore I got in and redecorated too, y'know." He almost _flinches_ as Lydia laughs. Ugh, it was a _pretty, lovely_ sound and he hated how much his chest fluttered when it rings throughout the room. He suddenly wished Donny was here to chase everyone off. As Lydia defends him, too, he looks away grumpily. He was the ghost with the most! He had more than just _moments!_ Also, talking about him like he wasn't there was _irritating_. All of this was _irritating_.

Distracted, the ghoul didn't even catch the look in Lydia's eye as she oh-so-innocently suggests Monopoly. "Yeah yeah. If you wanna get your butt kicked, sure, sounds great Lyds."

He floats behind Lydia, Jacques and Ginger for the tour - hardly in the mood to be a "Guide", hands shoved in his pockets as Lydia instead takes the role - guiding the skeleton and spider up the winding stairs into the wing with her gallery and dark room contained within it as a part of said tour. Maybe this was irritating because it was _embarrassing_ – despite the intention of a gallery, for people to come and see the work, Betelgeuse had set it up as a shrine to her in some fashion. Like an open door directly to the soft squishy places that remained of his decrepit heart, it was an _inner sanctum._ It was worse than the basement in some ways, full of emotions that he couldn't process hanging on full display all over the walls. There were even pictures of Jacques and Ginger in here. _He hated their affection._ It was accolades he didn't deserve. Once, he threw Ginger directly into the mouth of a Sandworm without batting one eye. He sent Jacques crashing into the Roadhouse basement as a gag. He had _thoroughly abused them_ because they offered themselves to him like some sort of horrendous sacrifice. Is _that_ what friendship is? He lingers, silently, chewing aggressively on the end of his cigarette.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Betelgeuse's determinedly bad mood was not beyond Lydia's notice, but Jacques and Ginger kept her too busy to see to amending it. They were so bubbly and inquisitive and had been touched beyond words that images of them were included in her gallery. She deigned to keep silent on that Betelgeuse set this room up for her. His disposition was crotchety enough without adding embarrassment into the mix. From his ex-roommates' pointed silence on the matter, Lydia inferred that _they knew_ who hung these photographs despite her tight lips.

By the time the tour was over and they were set down in the entertainment room to pick their playing pieces, it was too late. This was _war_. There were no friendships or marriages in Monopoly, though one wouldn't be able to tell by the sweet smile gracing her lips as Lydia, the designated banker by popular demand, counted and handed out the starting cash to each player. Ginger chose the shoe, fancying it a tap shoe, Jacques preferred the wheelbarrow— _"it will take a strongman to haul all of zee cash I will be winning, oui?"_— and Lydia chose the cat without any hesitation, though she did eye the dog with a certain fondness that had not existed pre-marriage.

Betelgeuse produced a live beetle from one of his coat pockets, but rather than eating it, he placed the shiny, emerald, iridescent creepy-crawly on the board. Immediately, before they even rolled to see who would go first, it made a beeline backward across the board, heading straight for Park Place. A firm look from Lydia and an exasperated grumble from her husband later, the beetle crept back into place on _GO_ before petrifying.

Lydia wasn't stupid. He would have to be carefully watched. Betelgeuse was a _cheat_ and a _bully_ and a _sore loser._ Given the opportunity, he would do anything and everything to _win_. Ginger and Jacques must have been aware of this as well, or else they wouldn't have insisted upon her being the banker. Nevertheless, her husband wasn't without his weaknesses and Lydia's wasn't above capitalizing on them.

After establishing house rules— _double cash for landing on GO, no auctions, taxation and fees go straight to FREE PARKING, properties are free game immediately, no need to go once around the board—_ the game could begin. Betelgeuse very conveniently rolled twelve to go first. Then, he rolled twelve again and snatched up the electric company. Another "lucky roll" gave him Illinois Avenue. If he wanted to play like _that_, Lydia would let him dig his own grave. As soon as the dice landed on yet another advantageous double-six, she spoke up, stopping him in his tracks.

"What _rotten luck,"_ she intoned with faux disappointment on his behalf, taking it upon herself to move his suddenly wriggly, protesting beetle right to jail. It was discontent to stay put, pacing within the invisible borders of the 2D cell but never crossing the line. "And you were on _such a roll,_ too. Care to review the rulebook while everyone else takes their turn?"

Ginger and Jacques stifled amused giggles, Betelgeuse seethed, and Lydia flourished the little paper pamphlet in his direction with vicious benevolence. She was trying to _help_. Honestly.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

If anything, Betelgeuse had taught Lydia well. His casual villainy around her and towards her probably made her empathy in situations like this towards him _much less_ – that and she was simply some sort of Monopoly gulag runner, but her poor husband didn't know that yet.

Lydia was generous at first – she let Betelgeuse roll twelves four times before putting the little beetle directly in Jail. "Aw what!" the ghoul protested, as Lydia smugly passed over the rule guide. Flipping through it angrily, he grumbled to himself. This was _fun_, supposedly. Getting one _up_ on old BJ, huh?

Fine. On his next turn he procures the fifty dollars to free himself but was still trapped in place as Ginger, Jacques, and Lydia all quickly got a leg-up on the board. Rolling again, he plodded forward three spaces, giving Lydia a horrendous stink-eye. He purchases Ventor Avenue, at least.

The game proceeds thusly. That is, until certain property cards go missing and Betelgeuse starts collecting an exorbitant amount of rent. A miniature sandworm squiggles up from the middle of the board and chokes down one of Ginger's hotels, which Betelgeuse calls an "Act of God" with a smug shrug.

Money attempts to inch-worm its way out of the banker's box and down the sides of the table, underneath it until it reaches Betelgeuse's outstretched, clawed hand in his lap. He ghoul suddenly acquires a large quantity of community chest cards. Pieces move off of properties that aren't his and on to his.

He even attempts to cajole Ginger into squaring against the banker and bonehead as Lydia gets up to get a beer, but Jacques rats him out immediately much to his annoyance. "Goody-two-shoes," he mutters. Even the board itself isn't free from his meddling - property squares swap from one space to the next in a blink, confusing both of his former roommates thoroughly.

Nobody puts baby in the corner.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Lydia took smug satisfaction in patiently undoing every single one of his cheating attempts. After landing himself in jail, he gave up on manipulating the dice to his favor and pursued other slimy, predictable tactics. Who needed property cards? Lydia remembered who owned what and had each property and their values with houses and hotels memorized by heart. Whenever his grubby mitt emerged from beneath the table with mystery cash, she would very calmly take it from his pile put it back in the bank where it belonged. Whenever he tried to use one of his questionably earned community chest cards, she would stop him in his tracks— _"I don't remember you drawing that one. Jacques? Ginger? No? That's what I thought. Nice try, Beej."_

Had Betelgeuse been willing to engage Adam and Barbara in polite conversation, they would have been able to warn him that playing Monopoly with Lydia was a _bad idea._ She was a _ruthless monster who showed no mercy and would bleed him dry with a smile on her face. _Despite some of his less than admirable traits, Chuck hadn't taught his daughter nothing.

Ginger and Jacques _trusted_ her— a mistake— and that made them easy to deal with. With sweet smiles and honeyed words, Lydia negotiated her way into three monopolies— orange, red, and green. She very quickly controlled half of the board. Any deals her husband attempted to propose were met with a flat, resounding **no**. Frustrated and sleazy, he tried to talk her out of the other two yellow properties she was holding onto with an iron fist. _"Throw a grand and both your railroads on top of that and then we'll talk." _This earned her a foul sneer and more cheating attempts that were promptly thwarted.

Betelgeuse managed to luck his way into Boardwalk and Park Place, and Lydia managed to luck her way into _never landing on them._ Poor, sweet Ginger was the first to hit bankruptcy under one of Lydia's many hotels. Contrarily, once it was Jacque's time to go, he was forced to bequeath his meager earnings to Betelgeuse. Once the skeleton and the spider were picked off, it was down to husband versus wife. _Now_, Lydia was willing to deal with him.

"Your railroads look lonely," she commented innocently, slipping her bare foot up into his chair beneath the table, pushing at his inner thigh with pale little toes. "I'd be willing to part with mine for a price. I'll give you _Reading,_ five-hundred dollars, and this get-out-of-jail-free card and _all I want from you_ is Ventnor." Ginger and Jacques watched from the sidelines with wide eyes, biting their nails, unaware of the manipulation going on right under their nose. "I think that's _more than fair."_ Her big toe pressed higher, nearly meeting his straining erection. "Deal?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Betelgeuse was colored more than surprised when Lydia took out Jacques and Ginger without batting an eye as if she had intended to do so the entire time. _What kind of villainy was this!?_ His wife, who had been so sweet and forgiving and kind, who had stopped him from hurting anybody, who was ever thoughtful and tidy, who hated it when he _lied, cheated and stole_ was like some sort of gameboard dominatrix from Hell.

_She had asked for Monopoly._ What kind of psychological manipulation was this?! It had to serve a _purpose_. She was usually so sweet to his former roommates. Was she thinking this might please him in some way? Did she easily discard them like dropped chess pieces to get to _him?_ She had easily met each of his cheating attempts with nothing but a keen eye. She was getting smart at his tricks, and it made him _uneasy_.

Eventually, it was down to a fight over railroads and yellow properties. If Lydia snatched up yellow, she'd win – she already had Monopolies in every other color. The lynchpin, of course, was the fact that Betelgeuse had picked up Ventnor long ago close to the start of the game. The _face_ he wore as the realization hit him was a haughty, devilish sneer.

Well, it was, until her tiny, petite foot started crawling up his leg, completely bare of all trappings. It slid up his inner thigh, and the ghoul practically swallowed hard, audibly. Jade eyes almost rolled into his head, and his lips fell slack as Lydia's toe edged closer to the erection that had _instantly_ responded to her footsie-under-the-table affections. _FOCUS. Focus! Ooohhh it was hard to focus._ He could just _give in,_ maybe she'd let this lead to _other things._

Wait. Wait, woah, this was _open manipulation!_ Betelgeuse hisses through his teeth in furious frustration. Reading, five hundred dollars and a get out of Jail free card were all _worthless_ if he gave in to her demands because she'd win.

"Try again," he growls and flips one of his cards. It reads _go directly to Jail._ "Put me in Jail, please," he says, leaning back and taking a long drag on his cigarette. "Can't have you makin' _money_ offa my movements now, can I? I might stick around in there for a while. Really _learn my lesson, y'know,_ become a productive member of society. In the meantime, you ready to _re-negotiate?"_

Sure, he was stalling her. She had technically already won, this was the death knell for him and he was prolonging the point. Can't make it easy, though, can he? Of course not!

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"Oh, Beej," Lydia sighed in disappointment, slipping her evil little foot from his lap. "I was _trying_ to make this easy for you because _I love you, _but have it your way. Slow and painful it is."

Deals were no longer in the books for him. _She had already won._ Ventnor would have been the nail in the coffin and put him out quick. As it was, Betelgeuse was a glutton for punishment and would rather draw out his inevitable demise with stubborn determination. That evil gleam in her eyes grew brighter and brighter with each property he was forced to mortgage, with each house and hotel he sold at a depreciated rate from when they were bought. The board game Gods were on her side and kept her little cat from ever trotting across his only good monopoly. Meanwhile, Lydia's stack of fake cash only grew. At one point she fanned herself with it, patiently taking her turns and waiting out his gratuitous jail-time.

He snarled fiercely when his beetle crawled its way over to Pennsylvania Avenue and realization dawned that he didn't have anything left to barter with. As if it was a _surprise_. As if he didn't _know this was coming._

"Huh," Lydia commented dryly, leaning over the board, playing that she was just as surprised as him. "Look at that. I win. Good game, Beej!" She said it like she meant it, beaming as though she _wasn't_ a closet sadist. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll get me _next time."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Little _brat_. She was a sadist, and a torturer, and _brilliant_ and she tossed them all away like _nothing_ with a goddamn sunshine smile. He'd be angrier if he wasn't both _sincerely impressed_ and vaguely aroused. Half the game was luck, of course, but Betelgeuse had always been of both an _exceedingly_ lucky and unlucky nature in turn. In this, however, Lydia had ensured his demise like some sort of Monopoly reaper.

He drums his clawed fingers on the table and sniffs, taking a long drag on his cigarette. How did he lose just like _that_ to her? Glittering dark eyes meet her honeyed ones briefly, and a flash of the Betelgeuse she encountered when they first met spark to life within his jade depths. The air is thick, for a moment, as if he might _do something._ Ginger and Jacques look suddenly as nervous as they could possibly look, slowly inching back from the table. Ginger climbs rapidly into Jacques rib cage, offering Lydia an uneasy little smile.

"Well!" the ghoul says, after a moment with a supremely easy nature to his tone, pushing away from the gaming table, "Can't win 'em all. Good job Lyds."

He brushes off his hands. "I'm goin' to the kitchen to get a beer. You guys wanna watch It? That's one of my favorites." He itches himself and meanders off whistling into the recesses of the house.

Jacques and Ginger look after him, eyes wide until he fully exits, before they both breathe a sigh of relief. Apparently, some sort of fire had been played with, here, but the moment seems to have passed. "Uh…good game, Lyds!" the spider smiles wobbily, "I can uh, make us some pawpcorn?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Lydia was oblivious to her husband's ire, unlike the wary skeleton-spider duo. She was high on victory, blind to the way his pupils were narrowing into reptilian slits. In fact, she glowed under his praise— _"Good job."_ He might as well have patted her on the head, given her a treat, and told her what a good girl she was. She knew she was good, but it wasn't until crushing him under her soft little foot that she knew how good. He was _The Ghost with the Most,_ the Neitherworld's leading conman and bio-exorcist. If she could beat him, she could beat _anybody._

His movie suggestion garnered a unanimous yes from his wife and friends. Lydia assumed he meant the original. _Did he even know about the remake?_ Probably not. A mental note was made to bring it up in the future.

"I don't really like popcorn," Lydia turned down Ginger's offer politely, "but I'll make you some. You're our _guests_, and you already brought stuff. Go on and get comfortable, we'll be back in a moment." Beyond gracious, they showed proper decorum in her home and deferred to her judgment, disappearing through the hallway that led to the home theatre.

"We should play chess next time!" She suggested excitedly after finding her husband in the kitchen, trotting after him to pour herself a glass of the wine Jacques brought and stick some instant popcorn in the microwave. "Just you and me— _obviously_. I bet you're really good when you're not trying to cheat."

It appeared Lydia was ready to let bygones be bygones and move on to the next game, not even rubbing her victory in his face the way he _certainly_ would have were he in her shoes. A good sport to the very end, she hugged him from behind before reaching up on her tip toes to kiss his stubbly cheek while he fussed in the fridge for a beer, using his shoulders as leverage.

"Thank you," she whispered sweetly, her meaning abundantly clear; letting her invite over actual _friends_, humoring her, not throwing a massive egotistical fit over his loss. She was charmed. "We'll have some _real fun_ after they leave. Promise."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Betelgeuse had one weakness: it was straightforward, non-cheating, playing by the rules sort of winning. Lydia had ensured that none of his tricks got past her, that he was playing straight up, and it was _this_ that did him in. The Maitlands were similar – he hadn't expected them to actually want to _protect_ the fleshbags living in their house.

And one of those fleshbags is still _giving him grief._ Okay, well, she's winning Monopoly games at minimum…that counts, right? While he doesn't mind building up her confidence, he wished it didn't have to come at _his expense._

As Lydia comes into the kitchen with a sunny disposition, he leans on one of the shelves inside the fridge and scrunches his face unseen as she suggests chess. "Oooooh," he says, faux-excited at her suggestion but putting on as much of a lie as he can muster, "Chess, yeah, _great idea honey."_

A game of _patience?_ Is she crazy? Has she _met him?!_ He'd rather watch paint dry and then slowly peel it off the wall strip by strip and eat it. He's never been good at chess! In fact, he's not certain he wants to face his wife in competitive games again. He doesn't like things he can't predict, and Lydia coming out of nowhere with a thorough Monopoly beat down was unacceptable.

Very sweetly, though, Lydia wraps her arms around him from behind, angling over his broad back and gives his face an affectionate kiss. He grunts. That was also some form of manipulation but damned if he didn't like it. Her words, too, made his shoulders slump from where they were tensed in frustrated annoyance. Promises, promises. _After they leave huh?_ Betelgeuse wasn't interested in _waiting that long._

"No problem," is all he says, straightening up with Lydia still sort of hanging onto his back, popping open his drink. He leans off to the side and sort of around and under his armpit to get at her, kissing the top of her head. "Anythin' for my princess." His words were syrupy and _good-natured_. Lydia disentangles with him to trot off and make popcorn for Ginger, and Betelgeuse shuffles out of the kitchen, disappearing as he leaves the threshold.

He reappears in the gaming room, dragging a large throw off the edge of the oversized grey and white striped couch in there. Jacques has already found his chair, too, his bony legs lifted in comfort. "Zis place is vereh nice Beat-le-jooce. If you ever are needing ze roommates again…"

There's a sudden, extreme, high-pitched burst of hysterical laughter from the ghost. Looks like that's flat out. "Jacques, never…lose your…sense 'o humor," the ghoul snickers, wiping a tear from his eye. "Oh, ya got me. Ah…aahaha…." The ghoul, still chuckling, flips the television on with the remote. It's a large display, clearly intended for this kind of thing.

"Zat wasn't a….oh, nevermind," Jacques and Ginger shrug at each other, helplessly.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Lydia was always a sucker for his affection, maybe almost as much as he was to hers. The ill intent lurking beneath his words and actions was beyond her. None the wiser, she plated the cookies, poured the popcorn into a bowl, and juggled both dishes plus her glass of wine back to the other side of the house without any assistance. Jacques swept to his feet to help alleviate her of some of the burden, and after grabbing several cookies and settling upright next to her husband, the movie could begin. In truth, it had already begun. She heard the familiar credit music start rolling halfway down the hall, and it had worked to hasten her steps. Betelgeuse must have been impatient to get Jacques and Ginger out, then. Not even waiting for her like that.

She didn't blame him. An entire day without indulging in their baser desires— _morning fellatio notwithstanding—_ had certainly been trying. He tried initiating a quickie several minutes before their guests arrived, though Lydia'd had the good sense to thwart him. That would have been _embarrassing_.

A blanket was already strewn across his lap when she came to cuddle up with him, squirming her legs up over his, her shoulders under his arm as it draped across the back of the couch. _This was nice_. Quiet. A horror classic— one of her favorites— the man she loved, good friends, and the taste of victory still sweet on her tongue, intermingling with blackberry wine and gingersnap cookies. Tonight had been _perfect._

It would only get _more perfect_ after the movie, once it was time to say goodbyes. She was so proud of him for taking his beating so well. Though she put on a brilliant poker smile, she hadn't been _certain_ of his impending defeat until Ginger was gone from the game and the tides began to turn in her favor. It was good of him to show such surprising and eloquent sportsmanship. For a moment there, she was _sure_ things would turn ugly and "movie night" would have been cut quite short, indeed.

Not only was he not harboring any ill will towards her, but he was also willing to play _another_ game! Lydia loved chess. Though she quickly outgrew Adam as an opponent, he could still surprise her every once in a while. Every move Betelgeuse made would be _new_ and _exciting_. Oh, she _hoped_ he would play chess with her soon.

Eventually, wine drained, cookies disappeared, and Lydia was free to snuggle him properly. One glass would be enough for tonight. Any more and she was likely to fall asleep come Part II. _Was Part II even on the itinerary?_ She hoped not. He was so _big_ and _strong_. Cuddling him was always a treat, but now that they'd expounded on their intimacy _quite thoroughly_, it only made her long to do so sans clothes. Betelgeuse seemed to be of a similar frame of mind. His arm had dropped to encircle her completely, holding her anchored fully in his lap. A gritty claw traced maddening circles on her inner thigh beneath the blanket. Her breaths grew shorter, cheeks flushing, though she hadn't caught on to his game yet. These were innocent enough touches. This was okay. _She was okay._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Mostly, Betelgeuse wanted Jacques and Ginger out of the house as fast as he could get them out, Lydia's assumption of that was correct. In addition, he didn't really want to talk to them – he'd talked to them for as long _as he could ever stand it._ The Neitherworld could indeed be a lonely place, but Betelgeuse was primarily linked with these two because it was generally _their money_ that paid the rent. Generally. Now he didn't need to pay rent and so, he didn't need _them_. As much as he deigned to spend time with them while they were roommates, he had a wife and a house and a private existence that he'd very much like to enjoy living – or at least, invite some _worthwhile_ individuals over. Or have a rager of a party, which would be infinitely better than this intensely lame sort of evening. At least Lydia was happy…though if he could hear her hopeful inner thoughts, he would decidedly categorize her a hopeless Pollyanna wearing rose colored glasses.

His ego was wounded, and there's nothing worse than Betelgeuse with a bruised ego. Revenge comes in so many forms for the ghost – when the Maitlands rejected both his business and advances and stupidly left his gateway open, he ravaged their haunting victims the Deetzes. When they rejected him again, he was about to hone in on Lydia if Juno hadn't stopped him with Dante's…and he made contact with her even then afterward, almost succeeding in getting right back out. Thus, here in his entertainment center, he starts off innocently enough, tucking Lydia against him affectionately, wrapping an arm firmly around her petite midsection once she settles in post-snack.

The distraction starts off slowly, his hand sliding against her under the blanket that hid his actions from his already oblivious roommates. Jacques was half asleep after drinking a few glasses of wine himself, though where the wine went once he imbibed it was something of a mystery. They were both happily zoned out into the film. Betelgeuse had used their zombie-like state on movie night before – to drag bodies hither and to through the house, to hide evidence of prior misdeeds, even to misdirect the cops when they had shown up once or twice during that span of time. At the moment, however, he uses it for simpler things like _this_.

His fingertips drag circles up Lydia's thigh as if absently until he could tell she was getting a bit flushed, her breath quickening. He teases her, shifting slightly to hitch her dress enough so he could get better leverage underneath it, disguising his actions as an effort to get more comfortable, the blanket tugging up to the girl's shoulders. The fingers wander, staying just around the perimeter of her most sensitive parts that are hidden by underthings. He can feel her heat between her thighs at that junction though, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to continue to _ease_ her into a state of slow, maddening arousal first. His other hand, wrapped around Lydia's midsection and anchoring her, drifts upwards in a gentle, exploratory fashion as well but keeps her pulled firmly against his front with most of his arm. He traces her collarbone, slowly, then the tops of her shoulders, and finally the sides of the soft mounds of her breasts hidden under her dress. All the while, those jade eyes tucked in dark sockets rest sleepily on the television, not once looking at her, as if all of this was simply part of a good, perfectly innocent cuddle. Perhaps he didn't even realize he was doing it.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Lydia had a passionate love-hate relationship with Stephen King. Betelgeuse once watched her stay up till dawn in the Maitland's attic reading Pet Sematary, only for her to throw the paperback across the room and curse the author to Hell upon reaching the end. She was back the very next night with a worn copy of The Shining in her hands, ready to forgive and forget. Despite the occasional vitriolic rage she aimed at his work, she _love, love, loved_ this one.

However, it was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on the film with Betelgeuse touching her like that; holding her locked firm against him, idle fingers tracing closer and closer to the apex of her thighs, the other hand groping lightly at her breasts. His knuckle brushed against the hidden lace of her underthings, and her breath hitched, but his movements stayed just as sure, calm, and casual as before, so it was probably an accident. _Probably_. She would give him the benefit of the doubt, anyway. What could they _really do_ with his roommates right there, anyway? He had proven himself a deeply jealous entity, and she was quite certain he wasn't in any mood to give them a free show.

A glance over her shoulder showed him with a gaze locked on the screen, almost bored. He didn't even seem to be aware of his wandering hands. _This was normal._ He was always touching her in some form or fashion. It was silly to suspect this was anything more than that. Just as she was about to deride herself a _pervert_ for getting worked up over nothing, he grunted, shifted, and used the arm banded around her waist to pull her further into his lap and right onto his _raging_ erection.

For a moment, she was transported back to their first date. Not the unpleasant beach fiasco, but their first _official_ date. The one where he asked her out properly, took her to a drive-in, bought her a meal, and encouraged her to cuddle and fall asleep against him before taking her home at the designated time and engaging in a delicious kissing game. That had been Lydia's first real introduction to passion, as well as the perfectly natural, societally ingrained fear of allowing a man to touch her and everything that implicated.

The fear she experienced now wasn't the same as then, but it was in a similar arena. _How far would he take this? How far would __**she let him**__ take this? He wouldn't. She wouldn't. Would she?_

Filthy teeth pulled at the knot tied at the nape of her neck while she was musing, taking her by surprise. Her breasts alone managed to keep the bodice up, as it had been weaved specifically to her proportions, but now Betelgeuse posed a more serious threat. He _would_ grab at her further, expose her beneath the blanket. He _would_ keep watching the movie and pretend he wasn't doing anything at all. A sneaky calloused fingertip came to play with the lining of her panties. Her heart rate stuttered.

"Beej," she whispered low, flushing a rosy shade for deeper reasons than mere arousal. She squirmed, but his heavy arm kept her from either leaving his lap or fixing her unraveled straps. "_Later_. We _can't_."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Insofar, Lydia seems to be taking Betelgeuse's explorations pretty easily enough, although the hitch of her hastening breath as he oh-so-innocently brushes right at the apex of her thighs with a knuckle is like music to his lichen filled ears. It is also here that he learns her little undergarments are _lace_ – either she had been hoping for something later, or had worn these knowing he was going to _find out._ He approves, mightily, and stifles a small groan building in his throat.

He can tell Lydia isn't entirely sure how to respond to him or the ridge of cock straining at her. So he ups the ante as if to force a response. After his blushing wife is left thoroughly exposed under that blanket due to him pulling the straps away, she has the presence of mind to protest. _Ah. There it is._

Tenderly, with a slippery little smile, he whispers in a pure gravelly tone to her as he dips forward to nuzzle her ear and make sure the roommates don't hear him. "We can," he rattles evilly, feverish, excited breath escaping his nose, "And we _will_. Oh, _ah ah ah…_.I wouldn't struggle too much, might make the blanket drop. Wouldn't want yer little _friends_ over there to be all scandalized by seein' you _in flagrante delicto_, would we?"

The fingers that drifted over those silk panties pressed softly against the front, drawing up and down the mound of Lydia's labia barely disguised underneath. "But, I won't tell if you don't, baby," he nearly pants, grossly, his cheek almost pressed fully to the space behind her ear, nose rubbing up behind it. She can hear every soft noise he makes this way, every tiny growl to her. "You've been struttin' round in that cute dress all day, what's a guy supposed to do?"

He's being nasty for the sake of it, taking pleasure in it and the hand that isn't currently busy at her nethers pushes up and into the bodice of her dress as she feared, squeezing at her breast with a heated hiss right against the back of her ear. His hips roll underneath Lydia then, dragging the ridge of his arousal between the gap of her thighs and rear.

In the flickering light of the film, Tim Curry's voice lilts as if on cue, _"Let go. Be afraid. You all taste so much better when you're afraid."_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

_Monster! Fiend! __**Bully!**_ Savagely, he thrust his hand down the front of her dress to dig his claws into the sweetly soft flesh there whilst simultaneously stroking the outside of her panties, and there was nothing she could do. She couldn't _allow_ this! But… she couldn't really _say_ or _do_ anything about it either. His shameless fondling had folded the stiff fabric molded to her chest down, leaving her upper torso completely exposed under the blanket. The fervor of his molestation loosened her arms, and she took advantage of the faux freedom to fist the blanket with both shaking hands, keeping the plush covering tucked high up over her shoulders and under her chin. It had nearly dropped under his fondling.

Betelgeuse was charging the way and she was just along for the ride. _This was premeditated._ These weren't the whimsical actions of a sexually frustrated husband. No, he _deliberately_ bundled her up in that blanket, pulled her into his lap, and painstakingly seduced her into a position where she had no choice but to either let him have his way or face certain humiliation. _Why?! What did she do to deserve this?!_

_No…_ it couldn't be because she beat him at Monopoly, could it? So what if she employed some less than ethical tactics to try and distract him into making a shit deal? It didn't even work! _She won that game fair and square!_ He didn't have any place being sore about it!

All Lydia could do was nibble furiously at her bottom lip in nervous anxiety, clutching the blanket close, her jittery countenance fixed on the television with dogged determination while he growled those horrible things in her ear. She couldn't break character for Jacques and Ginger— couldn't even turn her head to check and see if they were paying any attention. Betelgeuse was too tall. But then, the music grew louder during a suspenseful portion of the film, providing further camouflage for her devious assailant to _RRIIPP_ a hole right down the crotch of her panties.

"_Please,"_ she begged, before being forced to bite her lip hard, stifling a whine as rough fingers delved past the makeshift opening to rub at her folds; wet, hot, and primed just for him. Mindful of his claws, he strummed her delicately and with careful purpose, as though she were a harp that had stopped making music and he was trying to find the bum string. He kept on even as she squirmed, twisting her hips away, inadvertently pushing her ass further onto the insistent bulge humping _so, so slowly_ against her.

It was a challenge to keep her voice just above inaudible for him, layered with a terrible combination of aching arousal and abject embarrassment. All throughout the assault, her vice grip on the blanket never faltered.

"_Not- not here… Not in front of them… They'll see…"_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

In the more silent parts of the film, Lydia can feel Betelgeuse's pauses – the way he carefully orchestrates his movements to avoid any detection. He's being exceptionally controlled and patient in order to pull this little sexual scheme off, which means that she's _relatively safe_ so long as he keeps his cool.

He makes a pleased noise low in his throat, barely a whisper, as his rotten fingers find the soft and heated folds of Lydia's petite sex after tearing those adorable panties right open. Her struggling and attempt to get his fingers away only made the situation far worse and the ghoul far more excitable. She pleaded with him then, and the soft, horrific gleeful chuckle she receives in response is full of Betelgeuse's sort of playfulness. "C'mon baby… _what_, you're afraid? They ain't gonna see ya…so long as _y'keep quiet."_

He's having fun, clearly, torturing her _just enough._ Her discomfort is the entire idea of this, the _horrible possibility_ that their company might pick up on their activities. She's scandalized, and it's _thrilling._

"Don't worry, I'll _help_ you." With that, one of the ghoul's wide palms slides over Lydia's mouth, stifling her and keeping her tucked firmly against him. It effectively squashes her protesting, too, which was a shame but necessary for them to proceed further. "Remember this? You looked so beautiful in that red dress, baby, all ready t'get married to me. You're jus' as pretty _now_, squirmin' all over my lap."

In order to keep his roommates from seeing that he has a large hand clamped over Lydia's mouth, Betelgeuse eases himself and Lydia downwards. Her hands are busy clenching the blanket, so that goes with them both until he's settled behind her in a spooning position on their sides. "There we go," he grunts, still pressed up to her ear.

Properly in position now, blanket still atop them, they officially look like just a perfectly ordinary, innocently snuggled-up lump. They're facing away from their company, so seeing over the mound of their combined hips and legs is nearly impossible.

At a specific crescendo in the movie soundtrack, Betelgeuse uses the sound to mask the noise of his zipper, his cock springing free and immediately rutting up against Lydia rudely enough, their hips already snugly pressed together. Using his juice and an imaginary remote, the ghost pushes the sound of the television up further, panting heavily into Lydia's ear as he does so.

Once he's satisfied with the volume, the ghost gets right back to business, sliding the heated length of his dick between the soft, sexy thighs in front of him and between the lips his fingers were tormenting earlier. He doesn't push inwards yet, happy to stave off that urgent desire, rubbing slowly and fervidly back and forth in the folds of Lydia's wet heat.

"You're a _good girl,_ kitten. I'm a sore loser, yer right. So, what's better than havin' company? I'll make you a _real sore winner."_ His voice is gritty, thick and heavy with need for her as he pants these things into her ear.

The head of his cock nudges up into her and the hand across her mouth tightens. It's silent, and the only indication Lydia can tell of his reaction is his deep and desirous breaths becoming shaky and hitched. There's a lull in the music and Betelgeuse is again forced to pause and go still. This was beautiful, delicious torture. He nuzzles into Lydia's long, silken hair, huffing heatedly into it, and once the music builds or the dialogue returns, he pushes in slowly, grunting deeply into her hair and neck, using it to muffle his pleasure.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Down they went, that filthy palm sliding over her mouth in a terribly familiar process. _"Remember this?" _How could she forget? His hands fascinated her. She often found herself holding them just for the feel of it, matching her palm and fingers up with his and scrutinizing the many, many differences. They were horrible and beautiful, capable of both causing immeasurable harm and bringing about the sweetest, most heart-stopping pleasure the girl had ever known in her short life. Despite her inexperience, she knew in her heart that there wasn't anyone else out there who could come close to doing what he did for her. _To her._

There was no struggling here, not anymore. How could she deny him when he lathed her with such praise?— _Pretty. Beautiful. Good girl, kitten._ Newfound affection for canines aside, Lydia really was a cat person. Even when his pet names dripped with sleaze, tainted by the inherent villainy of the threats they garnished, they never failed to endear her to him all the more.

Still, this was _dangerous_. Jacques and Ginger would never look at her the same way if they knew. She wouldn't be "Miss Lydia" anymore, Betelgeuse's clean, polite, too-good-for-him wife. In their eyes, she would be no better than the jaded she-devils she was certain they'd never met— not that Lydia fancied herself better than them. Those women served their purpose and did so fabulously, but Betelgeuse's wholesome, kind, _good_ ex-roommates' opinions might not be so progressive. Lydia didn't want to lose them. She _loved_ them.

Contrarily, Betelgeuse seemed wholly indifferent. Maybe sympathetic to her plight, if only because he was sweet on her. Maybe he just didn't feel like dealing with the interruption. In either case, he was decent enough to keep _indecently_ still when the situation called for it. With a depth of patience she wasn't aware he possessed, he stayed buried halfway within her clenched, stressed walls while the film stalled. No matter how high he turned the volume, there was no drowning out the silent portions.

_Fear_ kept Lydia wound tight for him; of getting caught, of tarnishing friendships, of _displeasing him._ As if to voice his frustrations without actually putting words to it, he nuzzled furiously into her hair, grunting and releasing beastly little noises, mussing it out of its neat bun. His tiny snarls and pants seemed so _loud_ and _obvious_ to her. It made her pulse stutter, each muscle taut with indecision. Her own breaths felt damningly quick, and she forced her flared nostrils to suck in oxygen more slowly over his gripping fingers.

She was paralyzed, almost— clutching the blanket close to her collar as though she worried it was in danger of being snatched off, refusing to lift her gaze from the screen, incapable of relaxing her inner muscles for the penetration he demanded. The music ascended, giving Betelgeuse the _in_ he needed, and his hips surged forward. She wasn't ready to accept him. It _stung_, just so, and she bit his hand to stifle the guilty little cry that wanted out. A single tear bred of confusion and frustration dripped down her cheek to wet his claw. For a blessed few seconds, she allowed her eyes to close so that she might turn inside herself and find the strength she needed to _hush_. Her husband had always encouraged her to be vocal. This went against everything she'd been taught. _It wasn't fair._

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

If there were a few succinct words to describe Betelgeuse, fair would unfortunately not be among them. Fairness was for dopes, the easily tricked, _nice n' stupid_ folks like the Maitlands. Nonetheless as if reading her thoughts, he keeps whispering those slimy things into Lydia's pretty little ear like the true foul sleaze he is. It's only when his dick is fully pushed inside of her sweet, clenching confines that the praise resumes, the music in the soundtrack covering the low timbre of his oozing voice, "Oh baby," he pants, "When these two leave I wanna fuck ya in the middle of the kitchen n' make you scream, you know how I love how y'sound, we just gotta … keep our cool…nnngh," he's breathless, and when Lydia stifles a cry against his palm, teeth biting into him at his rude intrusion he growls pleasurably.

He can tell she's tense, afraid, and the tear that slides down her face and onto his finger is too much to resist. He shifts slightly, just enough to push his face over hers from behind just a little, huffing to her as his tongue drags over her cheek and his hand. His eyes practically flutter, the greasy smile appearing on his features once more, teeth bared. "'S alright beautiful," he murmurs low, "Daddy's gonna help you _relax._ You're so _tightly_ wound, kitten, n' while that feels _amazing_ on my dick, I'm gonna need you to loosen up _just a little."_

The hand groping at Lydia's breasts hungrily slides down the curves of her sides lustily, pulling from within the dress to travel down atop it, admiring the way it hugs her body. His motions are needful and he reaches low to ruck up the edges of her dress up just a little further for him. His rough, thick fingers push against her labial folds unapologetically, rubbing at her, stimulating her flesh and building that hot wet heat within her. It isn't without a magical assist, either – he leaks that magical juice into her, raising her to his whim quickly, _cheating her body_ this time.

He wasn't in the mood to wait, and he wasn't in the mood to play _fair_. He can feel her tremble, arch, and push against his hand, struggling under his attention as he incites her body into responding to him. "Ah…._oh yeah, baby…_ thaaat's it….that's my ….mmmn…girl," he grunts, one of his hairy legs hitching over her much smaller thigh for leverage, and he really begins to indulge himself, hips slapping against her rump, cock surging inside of her as he begins to heatedly thrust.

His juice usage continues, however, his fingers insistently plying at Lydia's young pussy, building and goading that heat into a sudden, intense orgasm for her. Cruelly, the orgasm isn't her last – as he continues to fuck her relentlessly under the blanket, one orgasm rolls into another, and another, and another thanks to his ghostly magic. He curses quietly, swallowing the loud breaths he's only partially allowed to huff into her ear, eyes slid closed as Lydia can feel her own juices streaming from her, and his joining them, making her and the undersides of her dress a sticky, hot mess.

Mercifully, the ghoul doesn't last long. His motions are intense and heated, like a frustrated animal, and finally, with a series of quick harsh jerks of his hips, Betelgeuse empties into Lydia. He moans his love for her, his endless, undying eternal love as he does, driving deep and filling her with every drop of his thick, hot spunk. Her torturous multiple orgasms are permitted to end with his own, and the grip on her mouth relaxes slightly as he comes off the high of that peak.

"_Baby_, sugar…" he moans to her, voice trembling with breathless relief, his hand down at her sex pulling up to his mouth in order to happily lick and suck at his fingers that are practically dripping in _her_, "Fucking hell you're _magnificent…_"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Oh, he loved her _so much._ He didn't have to use his juice to make her relax. He could have just as easily left her a tense, nervous wreck likely to blow their cover with her pathetic keening. Nevertheless, it was inherently unfair that he got to keep clattering on like that while the hand encompassing the bottom half of her face only pressed tighter and tighter and _tighter_. It became impossible to keep worrying once that forced torrent of euphoria began raging in her belly and between her legs, chasing any thoughts of impropriety and lost friendships away.

She thought it would end once the pulses slowed to a pleasurable haze, the way it always did. _It didn't._ Something inside of her shattered over and over again, never satisfied. From great shards into white-hot splinters into molten grains of concentrated bliss, burying her in a torturous quicksand of delirium. Her vision had gone dark… _or had it? Were her eyes even open?_ Was she being quiet for him the way she was supposed to? Was the movie even still playing? _Who cared?_

All that mattered was _this_. She belonged to him. She was _his_. Would it have been _so_ terrible to let him slide on a few fraudulent Monopoly plays? _It wouldn't have won him the game—_ and likely would have saved her from this sudden downpour of madness. Lydia no longer retained control or was even cognizant of her faculties. His calloused palm tasted of salt and damp earth beneath her unyielding teeth. Bursts of lightning exploded beneath her sweat-slicked flesh with his every touch. The vice grip on her safety blanket faltered to the point that it lay slack just above her exposed breasts, leaving her to appear fully nude to anyone who had her within their sights. Sound, sight, touch, and taste; all were overwhelmed by _him_. The charming, lovable monster that was her husband refused to allow anything other than himself to cloud her senses, far too selfish for such generosity.

Eventually, Lydia's beautiful suffering came to an anti-climactic close. With a predictably vicious thrust that pushed her into one last horrible orgasm, his hips having been allowed brutal leverage by his heavy leg slung over hers, he filled her quivering, milking pussy to the brim and then some with waves of thick cum. Finally, she was allowed repose. Awareness made a horrifying, grisly return as he cleaned his fingers with shameless vigor, still murmuring gravelly praise in her ear. The side of her dress was absolutely _soaked_. Her bun was no more, thick strands loosened and spilling over her bare, sweaty shoulders. Part I was nearing its end. In just a few moments, Stan's poor wife would climb the stairs and find him dead in the bath, his last breaths spent commemorating the horror of his childhood in blood.

Jacques and Ginger weren't speaking and Lydia didn't trust herself to check. For all she knew, they were _well aware_ of what the ghoul and his wife were up to and were _horribly embarrassed_ by it. With weak, trembling hands, she attempted to retie her straps and fix her bun, only to give up and leave the bounty of hair to fall uncomfortably behind her sticky neck. "I…" she began, feeling the need to return his sweetly whispered ovation, but at a loss for words. "I…" The proper words wouldn't form. Betelgeuse had officially fucked her into silence. The film came to her rescue, music and dialogue quieting as Mrs. Stan Uris began her hopeful ascent to the second floor, unaware of what she would find. Lydia sympathized with her heavily. She didn't know what was coming next either.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Predictability was for the birds, wasn't it? That's what the horror clown in this movie always seemed to believe, too. Of course, he was attempting to terrorize a group of small children – Betelgeuse, on the other hand, was busy terrorizing his poor wife.

He'd knock it off if he knew she didn't like it, or didn't trust him enough, or pushed him off, or punched him, or done literally anything to keep him from having his way. She seemed, instead, to be eager to lose herself in him and to the effects of his unyielding magic. Sometimes, it would seem, a mental mindfuck could be nice, couldn't it?

Betelgeuse has fucked Lydia to stupor, nearly, drunk on sex and the come down off the high was a bit startling and abrupt, certainly. For all his finesse, there were moments where he wasn't as _particularly thoughtful_ as he could be, and this was one of them. He does, though, attempt to at least help her with her straps – more aware of her bare décolletage than she is at the moment. They had finished up _just in time_ for the movie to end, by some miracle. Betelgeuse isn't entirely certain if he would have been able to deny himself had he been forced to stop prior to orgasm, his cock is still buried inside Lydia, fully prepared to surge at her again. He is again reluctant to pull from her, but he finds the issue forced as Jacque's voice suddenly splits the room as the credits roll.

"Mon amis, zat movie _always_ gets my bones cold!" he shivers, "Perhapz it eez because I nevar met a particularly _nice_ clown!"

Rudely yanked from his little pornographic hump-nest, Betelgeuse grumbles vaguely in reply as Lydia tries to collect herself with his rushed assistance, using the blanket again for cover.

"Also," remarks Ginger, happily, "I think this is the first time Bee-Jay has _kept his trap shut_ through the whole movie. Didja fawll asleep or somethin' B?"

Betelgeuse jerks relatively upright, his normally rumpled hair thoroughly mussed. "Hm? Oh. I must have, huh? I got uh…"

Clasping all eight arms and placing four of them against her cheek in admiration as she sees the cuddled pile the ghoul and Lydia had wound up in, the spider purrs out an appreciative, "Awww, you got _coooozy!"_

Whatever happy afterglow Betelgeuse was enjoying was rapidly wearing thin. Irritated, he gives Ginger a faux-smile and a shrug. _Fake it till you make it, right?_ It seems they had thoroughly gotten away with their little tete a tete, though. Lucky little scamps!


	19. The Prince & the Pianist

_**Lydia's P.O.V.  
**_

Lydia was nothing short of astounded that Jacques and Ginger managed to miss the fornicating that was going on right under their noses. She was sure her guilty expression, among other things, would give them away, but no, they were blissfully, beautifully oblivious. They didn't even question why she brought the blanket with her as she escorted them to the door like a proper hostess to say their farewells, the thick, plush thing curled over her shoulders and trailing on the ground in her wake. Never before had Lydia appreciated Betelgeuse's ex-roommates as much as she did now. They were perfect guests and friends, and she couldn't have asked for a lovelier evening. Certain aspects of the night could have gone more… _smoothly_, but the pros far outweighed the cons— or so the girl told herself.

Betelgeuse, in typical fashion, did not accompany them through the foyer but did go as far as to give his own crude goodbye before floating off to his own devices. That he even bothered to leave them with a word of parting, rude as it was, was better than Lydia expected.

"We must be doing zis again!" Jacques exclaimed, lingering in the doorway, "Oui, your tele-viz-ee-on is much big-ehr, but please know you will alwayz be welcome in zee roadhouse, cheri. We can play Operation— but be warned, you will not 'ave so eazy a time beating me at zat."

"Or Dance Dance Rev-uh-lution!" Ginger chimed in, equally excited by the prospect of a repeat soiree. "If you're there, maybe we can get through a whole game without BeeJay tyin' my shoelaces togethuh, the big cheat." All teasing aside, the enormous, fang-baring grin curving her fuchsia lips belied a deep affection for the slimy poltergeist.

"I would love to," Lydia agreed readily and meant it. Hopefully, the color in her cheeks and breathless quality of her voice would be written off as buzz from all the merriment. If either skeleton or spider noticed, they were too polite to say so. A couple bony, hairy hugs and some idle chit-chat later, and she was once again alone with her husband. She didn't know which room he was in, but he was around. With a heavy sigh, suddenly exhausted, she slumped her front against the massive double doors, forehead pressing into the cool wood. The blanket dropped, pooling around her bare feet. A pleasant rush of air flowed between her thighs, sticky with cum. The ruined scrap of lace that used to be her panties was plastered to damp flesh quite uncomfortably, so those were dropped to the floor too, kicked aside with the blanket. A single tug undid her dress straps again, allowing the bodice to sag agreeably.

The night wasn't over yet. Betelgeuse didn't make empty threats, and she knew he wanted his scream. For now, Lydia would savor her brief moment of solitude and calm.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

After living with Betelgeuse for so long, the skeleton and spider were accustomed to _just about anything_ – though the insanity tended to be a little more obvious generally. This is fortunate as indeed, it seems they are raring and ready to have another happy night with their newest friend having entirely missed Betelgeuse's evil behavior.

They were consummate good losers, too, unlike their former ghoulish roommate. He had cheated and trounced them singularly every time when they played games, so their eagerness was clearly shown to Lydia, a perfect hostess and willing to play games the right, and genial way. It seemed that primarily though they were just happy to be in Lydia's good graces – the two genuinely liked her and she them. They were willing to see the very best in her and ignore the rest. As if there were anything but good in her.

Once they depart and Lydia is left alone, she at least has a few minutes where there is nothing but quiet throughout the house. In fact, as she undresses in her tired way, there is not a single thing stirring – but an invisible poltergeist. He'd feel guilty about watching her if there was anything to feel guilty about – but he is relieved to have their guests gone and doubly pleased as Lydia's dress straps are left yet again to sag. She might be too hot, but she is, to his view, offering herself again to his touch.

The ghost reappears, stripe by stripe like a Cheshire cat in the open-plan kitchen that looks out into the living-room similarly to the Deetz's renovated take on the Maitland's place. He must not have hated their style _too_ terribly, or maybe he imagined it would make Lydia feel more at home.

"Good job hosting, babes," comes the lilting compliment, Betelgeuse, manifesting fully with a pleasant smirk. He's holding a glass of red wine that he's swirling, sitting half-astride the counter-top like some kind of juvenile delinquent. "We should _definitely_ do this more often." A mossy hand runs through his tangled hair as much as it can.

He grins, then, _entirely too pleased with himself_, voice insinuating he very much enjoyed certain parts. "A perfect wife n' party planner. Ready for the _after-party,_ I see, babes?" he asks, eyeing Lydia up and crooking a dirty finger to her.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

With listless grace, Lydia drifted across the way to join her husband in the kitchen, unbuttoning the top of her dress as she walked. By the time she reached him, it slipped entirely from her person in a slump of red and black cotton on the tile, leaving her entirely nude for him. The slick trail of juices between her thighs had nearly reached her knee. There was nothing seductive in her approach. Stripping was merely the necessary next step to bring her night that much closer to its end.

"Next time, I get to pick the movie" she imparted with a dry sort of humor, vaguely rebellious, and took the glass of wine he wordlessly offered. As unamused by his antics as she was, there would be no reasoning with him. He did what he wanted, he offered no sincere apologies, and he liked it that way. In this instance, she was just thankful he _got away with it._

A deep swig drained the glass and muddled her already foggy mind further. The promise of eventual sleep in her large, cozy, luxurious bed seemed so very far away. After setting the empty glass down and out of the way, she hugged him; eyes closed, breath slowing in contentment at the sensation of being enveloped in his soothing cool. He was pleasantly just below room temperature. She could probably fall asleep right here…

"I'm tired, Beej," she yawned into his chest after a moment, lashes fluttering as she blinked herself awake. This wasn't a plea for mercy so much as a simple statement of fact. He was rocking her slightly in his arms, shifting his weight from foot to foot ever so slightly with sluggish motions that were too slow to be considered a dance. Claws raked through her hair and she practically purred, melting impossible further into him. "Can we put on Part II when we go to bed? I wanna see the dinner scene at the Chinese restaurant. It's my favorite."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"What, was the psycho-manipulator murderous sewer clown a little too on the nose?" the ghoul asks, nose wrinkled as Lydia drinks a goodly amount of her wine before finishing it off. "Those deadlights supposedly exist in the darkness of Todash space, otherwise known as _Stephen King got into a lot of cocaine and wrote th' hot rambling brainfuck_ called th' Dark Tower."

As his wife snuggles up to his striped suit fully nude, Betelgeuse takes some form of pity on her. She hadn't even bothered to wipe down her shimmering inner thighs, weary enough to leave them dripping, which is indicative to him of _very real_ exhaustion. She drowses against him nearly, and he wraps his striped arms around her in exchange affectionately. He had gotten his revenge fair and square so he was at least primarily satiated.

"I can tell," Betelgeuse replies, voice a low playfully smug thing as Lydia notes her tired state. He rocks her, then, indeed, and strokes her silky black hair. He was a lucky fool, and _spoiled_ for it. She was entirely too forgiving and permissive, and he was always willing to take advantage. There were times however, where he simply just enjoyed her – these usually came after a heady romp, as lust clouds his thinking and appreciation until it is calmed again. Nothing stoked his flames higher than her nubile, youthful body, especially as she cuddles all the closer and he has to resist pulling her hair taut and flipping her 'round to the countertop to take advantage.

Instead, he takes her up on her request as the edge is lowered substantially. He does suck in air through his grimy teeth though in appreciation of her.

"Sure thing babes. Whatever ya want. Whyzzat your favorite scene? It is _hilarious_ I mean, if your square ghost parents had done just a modicum of research they coulda scared the pants off your parents and their fun lil party guests at that dinner. But hey, what would I know, right?"

Instead of hauling her over a shoulder rudely as usual he adjusts his arms to pick her up properly, almost like carrying a sleepy child to bed with a thigh hitched on either one of his hips, tucking her head against his graveyard dusted shoulder. His agreeable nature seems to kick in after being thoroughly badly behaved…perhaps Juno was on to something with her cat-house distraction. Either way, Betelgeuse floats his sleepy wife up towards their bedroom in the gilded cage of the light-house.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"I don't know," she had mumbled sleepily into his neck as he floated her up the circular staircase, well on her way to the dream fields of Elysium. "It just _is_." He was probably right. Mr. and Mrs. Maitland may have played a part in her favoring of that particular scene, but in actuality, Lydia would probably say any scene from _IT_, part I or II, was her favorite when questioned. The werewolf scene was definitely seeming more attractive in light of recent events.

She never did make it to the dinner scene. Sleep took her before he even passed the threshold into their bedroom. No matter. They ended up watching it during daylight hours after indulging in lazy morning sex, lingering beneath the covers, neither in any particular mood to leave. Time was kind to her this weekend. For once, Neitherworld time and Living world time were in agreement with one another. The clocks on her wrist flowed in even tempo with the other. They were able to spend the entire weekend wrapped up in themselves, playing games— sexual and otherwise— and actually _talking_. Getting to know each other. Sunday was no different.

Through trial and error, she played music for him and learned that her husband was a big fan of classic rock, heavy metal, and jazz. Surprisingly enough, rap didn't seem to strike any chords with him, though he was adorably shocked to learn that his darling, innocent, incorruptible little wife listened to such lewd words on a regular basis. _"No wonder yer such a perv,"_ he'd needled at her before they devolved into another impromptu romp with Slayer playing the soundtrack to their tryst.

Too soon, the big hand touched 10:00 p.m. and it became too late for Lydia to continue staying in the lighthouse. If she did, she was sure to miss school the next morning. As well as Adam and Barbara were handling her marriage, she wasn't about to push the envelope on their begrudging acquiescence. One of the reasons they accepted her decision to take off this weekend without a fight was her promise to be back in time to go to school. No amount of misdirection, conning, scheming, or pleading would get Betelgeuse his way in this arena.

"I _have_ to go, Beej," she reiterated firmly with a deep frown, having ended up cornered against the vanity-porthole to the living realm by the irate poltergeist. "I don't want to go either, you know that— and you _knew_ this was coming. I'll come back next weekend, I promise."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

The rest of the weekend went by in a blissful sort of haze. Lydia never complained when Betelgeuse woke up in the morning and made his _traditional morning sounds_ involving a lot of loogies and ass-scratching, grunting, groaning and shuffling until his brain caught up with the idea that he's awake and that he had slept at one point or another. He didn't ever need the sleep, but finding a circadian rhythm with his wife was strangely comforting…and peculiarly grounding. That and the morning routine of coffee and weed was especially enjoyable, Lydia always faithfully helped him complete the crossword.

Getting to know her was an enjoyable thing, and the pattern of existence with her was complimentary to his own. She took up his attention and his lust and left him satiated and _complete_. Between the house and Lydia, he hadn't wanted for anything…which for a ghoul who seemed to always be working at something was definitely _something else._

Somewhere, Juno was celebrating. Somewhere, Juno was preparing to send Lydia Geuse a thank you gift she'd never forget.

He learned a lot about Lydia over the course of the weekend. Delightedly discovered her penchant for rap music, which seemed so unlike everything else about her but the music was as _dirty_ as his lifestyle and so he found a new appreciation for it. She let him have her as much as he wanted, too, despite being utterly incorrigible about it altogether.

But, eventually, as all things seemed to go for him…the blissful fantasy he lived here with her came to an inevitable close. Possessive and angry, he had pulled every mental trick in the book he knew to get her to stick around, but she was defiant and saw through each and every one of them. He eventually corners her in front of the vanity, out of every rationale and excuse he could think of to keep her with him.

"Wait a minute," the ghoul declares suddenly, "I don't have to fuckin' stay here. I'm free. I can go anywhere I _want_. I'm comin' with _you_, and you can't stop me." He looks thoroughly _pleased_ and _smug_.

He is undeniably going to get his way on this one, Betelgeuse didn't need the portal to get through as Lydia did. Begrudgingly, he is permitted to come along with her, awkwardly climbing through the portal for appearance's sake after her and tumbling off her vanity with a flailing thud.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

This was bound to end poorly. While Lydia had been able to get away with sneak sleepovers under the Deetzes' watch, the Maitlands were not so negligent. They were _relishing_ acting as her actual, real parents sans interference. Betelgeuse, just as before, was still a topic that went unmentioned, an ignored blight on their unnaturally happy afterlife. It was imperative that blight continued to go ignored to maintain that peace.

"Fine," she conceded to his smug solution with a sour frown— as if her opinion was even being taken into account here, "but I have some _ground rules._ That's right. _Rules."_ This was punctuated with a pout and poke at his stupid chest. With far more grace than he and a touch of sass in the sashay of her rear, she climbed through the looking glass portal before him.

"Rule number one," she began, hands on her hips, staring down unimpressed at the collapsed poltergeist. _"No sex." _There was a horrible, meaningful pause while she watched the lights go out in his eyes. "I'm serious, Betelgeuse." Use of his cursed name gave gravity to her conviction. "No weird orgasm magic, no _enthusiastic cuddles,_ no loopholes, no nothing."

That she could already see the gears in his head turning in defiance gave her no relief, and so she pinched the bridge of her nose and moved on to the next item on the list.

"Rule number _two_," she continued imperiously, "No messing with Adam and Barb. I know I told you one scream was fair, but that was _before_ you did whatever you did when you took me to look at houses. _You know what you did_ and that's punishment enough for them."

Unspoken forgiveness had already been offered for his mocking them, causing trouble for them when they were doing such a kind, selfless thing for her— he was the one to retrieve them from the dreaded waiting room, after all. Despite her merciful nature, he looked like he could use a reminder of his past misdeeds.

"Rule number three, and this one should be the easiest, but for some reason, I feel like it'll be the one you have the most trouble with. If you could at least _try_ for my sake, I would really, really appreciate it." Here, she employed some of the sweetness and smiles she had learned he liked to see from her, implying that she would be qui_te appreciative indeed._ "Be. Quiet."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Jade eyes look up at a hands-on-her-hips, no-nonsense Lydia above him. Squirming his shoulders, Betelgeuse tried to inch forward sneakily to look up whatever she was wearing, but a small foot came to rest firmly on one of his collarbones, effectively stopping _that_ as she lists off the rules.

No sex! The face he made immediately gave away what he thought about that, but as Lydia uses his cursed name for emphasis he hisses from the floor, a noise very much similar to the one he made during the wedding – that cringing, horrified _"yeeeeeeep!" _Okay, so she meant business. Fine. He'll work on that one. There's a lot of things besides sex. Lots! It seems he was bad at hiding the expression for _that_ train of thought too because Lydia looked annoyed already. Juno always gave him that look, pinched nose bridge included.

As Lydia continues along with the rest, a roach appears from within Betelgeuse's hair and scuttles down onto her floor. Not unnoticed for long, the ghoul spies it and squirms out from underfoot, flipping over onto his stomach and slapping it dead with his palm, curling up around it as if it were some sort of prize. From here he works up into a satisfied standing position as Lydia goes into _you know what you did._

Whether or not he's actively listening at this point is arguable. The ghoul strolls over past Lydia to her bed, collapsing into it _enthusiastically_ and making the poor mattress groan as he does. One arm behind his head, he dips the roach to his lips and crunches loudly, just as his wife reaches the last of her rules.

"Sure sure," he says, vaguely to _everything_ she just said, his blasé attitude towards her rules apparent, "Anythin' _else,_ yer highness?"

* * *

Barbara Maitland was starting to get nervous. It was late, and Lydia was due to be home or she'd be late for school. She had been in the middle of wiping down the small country kitchen countertops in quiet with Adam before her nervous energy bubbled over.

"I knew that sonofa…that…mmmf, I knew he wasn't going to _bring her back_ when she needed to be back!" she huffed, angrily, tossing the dish-rag in her hand down onto the countertop and throwing up her arms helplessly.

Adam raised his head from the paper, the Winter River Gazette, and surveyed his wife for a moment before replying. "Well, they still have a few hours before it becomes a situation. There's nothing we can do, Barbara, he took her somewhere. God knows where. We couldn't look for her if we wanted to try and our vouchers are fully used up by now."

Leaning on the counter, Barb put her head into her hands. "I know," she moaned despairingly, "I just want her to be _safe_. She's in our hands, Adam! She's…practically _ours_. I mean, it isn't like her parents can sign her over to us legally seeing as we're ghosts, but…"

Adam rose from the table and put a hand comfortingly on Barb's shoulder. "I know honey. I know it's been a long weekend. We just have to trust her."

Gesturing into the air, picking up the rag again, Barb pulled back from her palms at Adam's touch, appreciative for his comforting gesture. "I know. I know! It's hard, Adam. She's a _teenager_. She shouldn't even be _with_ him, he's a _grown man of indeterminate age_ and it isn't right! I never wanted to be like…like…Jane, you know, a _prude_, but this is so far beyond the pale…"

Adam sighed. "I agree. It isn't right. But what can we do except …. wait? We can't stop either of them."

Barb then went through a list she had gone through with Adam repeatedly over the course of the weekend, pacing in the galley of the kitchen.

"How do we know he hasn't hypnotized her or something like that?"

Adam replied as he always did with a, "We don't know."

"And how do we know she's not…possessed? Or drugged? Or under his influence in some supernatural way?"

"We don't know, Barb."

"How do we know he's not abusing her, or … he's vile! He's going to hurt her! How do we know he hasn't hurt her already and she's just lying to cover it up?!"

"We don't know, sweetheart. We just don't."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

He was _impossible_. There would be no reasoning with that kind of bullshit indifferent agreeability. "Yes," she answered his rhetorical jibe on her way out of the room, brow twitching, "blow your cigarette smoke out the window and _clean up after yourself."_ Maybe some tea would help calm them both.

Betelgeuse left a trail of dirt and grit everywhere he went. Usually, he was pretty good about removing traces of himself, but he was careless at the lighthouse— content to watch Lydia wash dishes, collect laundry, and perform other little various acts of cleanliness. Lydia would be lying if she said she didn't enjoy the feel of his eyes on her; roving, thinking of what he'd already done to her and what he planned to do next.

It was different here. Here, he was an intruder, a boyfriend snuck in after-hours, not her husband and master of the house— no matter how much he liked to think so. Their game of house was up for the weekend, and as sweet as she found it that he refused to surrender the prize of her company, _the game wasn't fun anymore._ It was time to pack up, return to Mom and Dad, and recharge. How was she supposed to reassure Adam and Barbara that everything was fine when everything wasn't fine? An uncontrollable force that _absolutely_ meant them harm was sleazing out in her bedroom unapologetically.

_Maybe it would be better to just tell them the truth,_ her conscience spoke up, reminding her that she even had one. Betelgeuse certainly tried his best to bury it. Musings of honesty and straightforward dealings that would certainly go awry anyway were interrupted by the conversation she overhead upon approaching the kitchen.

_Possessed. Drugged. Abuse._

"You think he's _drugging_ me?" Lydia gaped from the doorway, announcing her presence boldly, verily insulted. "_Controlling_ me?" The filter was gone and Lydia was ready to go off. "Look, I get it, he can be a dick, but _what the fuck, guys?_ Do you really think I'm that _weak!_ That I would let someone treat me like that!" The faded fingerprints wrapped around her neck gave no credence to the impassioned outburst but didn't quite detract from it either.

"_Jesus Christ," _the tone and quality of her voice calmed from initial rage into a more seething fury. Unwilling to deal with their coddling, Lydia avoided eye contact coolly and went about fixing tea— for two. Openly. "That man is in love with me. He loves me so much that even though he _hates your guts_ for feeding him to a sandworm and could _literally rip your spirit stuff to shreds with his pinky finger—_ he extended your perimeter. You can leave. Call it what you want, this is him being nice and it's the best you two are ever going to get from him."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Lydia didn't see the jerking-off motion Betelgeuse made after she left, which was probably for the best. The ghoul rolls over onto his side sulkily, determined to figure out a way around Lydia's proclamations. He could work within rules, but it was so much more fun to break them. It was difficult going from being fully in control to a place like this, where he was still underneath the boot of the Maitlands – squares who had betrayed him for the living people in their house. Practically unheard of. Ghouls supported other ghouls. Where did they get off? Losers. Betelgeuse suddenly realizes he can hear muffled conversation through the air vent on Lydia's floor. It's too soft for him to hear, exactly, so he shifts into a green vaporous wave and slips down to eavesdrop on the conversation below.

* * *

Barbara Maitland was simultaneously thrilled to see Lydia and utterly crushed that she had heard the dialogue between Adam and herself. The sad look written all over her face said as much, and it quite remarkably resembled the look she had given after Lydia yelled at them after they recalled a certain horrific snake off the staircase.

"Lydia," she said, her voice relieved and pleading all at once. Lydia didn't let her get a word in edge-wise with her rant, and Barb's face colored a flushed red. She waited as the girl stalked through the kitchen, clearly upset, and Adam looked at his wife, frowning.

"It isn't that, Lydia, it's just…when we first met him…" Adam begins to explain, stealing glances nervously at Barb as if asking for permission, "…he was very _hands-on_ with Barb in a way that could be considered some pretty severe _sexual harassment._ He asked me if he had a shot with her, at all – that was pretty much the first thing he said to me. I don't know _what_ he would have done to Barb if I hadn't been there if I'm honest. We've tried keeping some of his personality that we know about a secret from you to …well, protect you."

Barb fidgeted with her apron, looking vaguely mortified and ashamed. "It was pretty awful. He just…appeared out of the grave he was lurking in inside Adam's model after we dug him out and pounced. I never want to be kissed like that ever again. Or touched like that ever again." She shudders, visibly. "He manipulated us into thinking he could help us get rid of your parents. He wanted to _kill_ them, but we stopped him from that. And then he looked up my dress, and we'd had enough by then."

Adam looked at Lydia mournfully. "So you can see, it isn't about being weak. We're not weak. Or…well, I don't think we are. He saved our lives from exorcism, yes, but…we couldn't let him have you after knowing what we knew. He's … just some sexual deviant shyster. We should have never said his name. We didn't want this for you, Lydia. We wanted you to … find a guy your age, you know. Live your life with … people who aren't us. Aren't dead. We couldn't be happier to informally adopt you as our own, we consider you our daughter, but … we got you into this mess, and we're sorry. I know you're not, but we are."

Barbara nodded in agreement solemnly, before noticing the double teacups. "….Lydia, _is he in the house?"_

Both of them seem to fully ignore what he's done for them and instead pointedly look at her.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

It was no wonder that they didn't understand Betelgeuse. How could they possibly comprehend what it was like to harness _that much raw power_ when they themselves were only able to deal in parlor tricks? It wasn't his fault he was the way he was. He was just fulfilling everyone else's expectations of him. Everybody loves a bad boy.

"_Yes. _He's in the house. I'm going to be sleeping in the same bed as my husband. Scandalous, I know." Their horrified expressions were ignored in favor of spooning out honey into two mugs. All plans to keep his presence a secret had been swept aside in the wake of their insulting assumptions. They could not be allowed to continue laboring under such outlandish delusions. "You do know I'm from _New York,_ right? And that I'm not _five years old?"_

"I'm not interested in boys my age and they're not interested in me." How very _jaded_ her adoptive parents were turning out to be served to calm her ire further. It wasn't their fault they were the way they were either. The ugly jealousy that reared up at the reminder that _Barbara_ had been on the receiving end of one of his kisses did, however, bring a less than friendly curl to her upper lip. "— and for the record, Barb, you wouldn't know _what_ to do with him if you had the chance."

He would chew her up, spit her out, and become bored within a few uses. Lydia was the only one _made_ for him. Likewise, Adam and Barbara appeared to be made for each other. "You really thought hearing that he _hit on you_ was too much for me? _Like I didn't already know?"_ Legitimate laughter punctuated her point before she continued. "I watch porn. I have sex with my husband— _of my own free will, thank you very much—_ and I _like_ the sex I have with my husband. I've been avoiding getting felt up by fully grown men on the subway since I was _twelve_. I was—" She cut herself off here. No need to give more information than was strictly necessary.

"Do you want to know what we did this weekend? We listened to music, went swimming, watched some movies, and I _kicked his ass_ at Monopoly. Any more questions about my private life you feel you're entitled to know the answer to?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

If Lydia only knew how much Betelgeuse agreed with the first part of her inner monologue. He was a poltergeist, a skilled, talented professional, and he had been treated with nothing but spite and betrayal by these two _real spooksters_ who, upon learning the most basic shit he could do, tucked tail and _ran_. Then, _they stole what he showed them and used it to host a dance party._ With what he was seeing though was Lydia, his wife, ardently defending their relationship. She wouldn't budge. …maybe he could follow her rules, at least for a few hours.

Barb and Adam were clearly out of their league with this. Barb, especially, her face screwing up with pain as Lydia mocks her experience with Betelgeuse…and _then_ implies, somehow, that it would have led to something she couldn't have handled anyway. It lurches forward into a firm reaction from the woman, slamming the rag down onto the countertop again. "I didn't _want_ to have that chance, Lydia! He's _dead_ and _disgusting_ and I'm _married to Adam!"_

Her eyes close then as if trying to stabilize herself and quiet her feelings. The rag is retrieved and wrung fitfully in her hands as the girl continues on into some intensely invasive territory. Adam's face turns a dark flushed shade, his hands rising in an effort to stem the flow of information from Lydia somehow.

"Lydia! When we first met you, you were calling your parents out on some deviant sexual activity in the hallway – I'm going to ask that we keep this parental relationship on a…not-that-level-of-information basis, please—" Adam stutters, helplessly, "In the _real world_ someone would be calling the police about this, you aren't of a consenting age—"

Barb also seemed intensely distressed. "We know you want to be so much older than you are, Lydia! We're just trying to look out for your best interests! I don't…know what happens in New York, or the…or the subway, but … I couldn't avoid being _felt up_ by that…that no good…ooof!" she huffs the last, cutting herself off in anger. "I'm very glad he's seen fit to behave normally or whatever he's doing to make you see him as something normal." With Barb's emphasis and anger within the last sentence made it clear she was not very glad at all.

Barb's eyes widen, and she gestures at Lydia's neck. Fading but still obvious were red marks, as if fingers had been pressed to her flesh. "Lydia Deetz! What are _those marks?_ Please tell me he isn't hurting you…!"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

_Children_. They were _children_. They wanted to question the validity of her sex life, of her feelings, but couldn't even look her in the eye when faced with the facts of the case.

"_You want to be so much older than you are."_

What a crock of bullshit. Maturity was _thrust_ upon Lydia. Growing up early was no choice taken in a fit of teenage angst, and certainly no privilege. Once, she might have _longed_ to be just like any of the other girls that attended her prestigious private school; vapid, ordinary, selfish. No longer. Betelgeuse didn't like them. He liked _her_. He _loved_ her. Why would she ever want to be anything less than herself ever again?

"Normal is overrated," Lydia echoed without intonation, filling both she and her husband's cups with bubbling water from the kettle, "and I like it _rough."_

Satisfied with the water level, and more than a little with herself, Lydia left Adam and Barbara to deal with the backlash of the raw truth she had just dished out. Standing up for herself felt good. If Claire ever showed her face around town again, she would find a _very different_ Lydia Deetz staring down the edge of her insults.

Betelgeuse was exactly where she left him; sprawled entirely too comfortably over her cozy queen, watching Netflix, _shoes removed_ and sitting on the floor so as to not leave mud tracks. The window was even open. _Impressive_.

"Chamomile and honey," she gifted him his tea, smiling softer than she knew. That he was making an actual competent attempt was charming in and of itself, chasing any residual tension from her spat with her "parents" away. "You don't have to drink it if you don't want."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Betelgeuse indeed was neatly and tidily on Lydia's bed, as if he had been there the entire time, casually flipping through Netflix. As she walks in he has the common sense to look up as if he wasn't expecting her and smiles suddenly, dirty teeth bared.

He accepts the tea with a grateful look – this was his chance to milk this for everything it was worth – and inclines his head towards his wife appreciatively. "What'd I'd do to get _so lucky?"_ he takes a loud sip, smacking his lips. "Wow, babes. Y'know, I woulda gone through the whole sandworm experience as many times as it took to get here with you?"

He pats the bed next to him invitingly, scrunching his nose. "C'mere. I'm sorry I was a dick earlier. I just have a hard time with the whole _you leavin'_ thing, y'know. I'm _attached_. You're beautiful, n' I like everything about you, so it's _hard."_ He gestures at the television, "I was just turnin' on some Hannibal. It's a new Netflix show. Remember the movie? They made it into a series, isn't that wild? It's like a whole month's worth of watchin' a guy eat people. Long-pig. I love this century. Didja get to talk to yer ghost 'rents? I'll keep quiet so they don't know I'm here like y' said, honey. I _promise."_

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

The mention of that _wretched_ Hannibal reboot made Lydia's countenance turn sour again, having been softened by his sweet compliments and apologies.

"Uh, no," she rejected, taking the remote from him and navigating back to the home screen so she could search for _Silence of the Lambs_, "originals or nothing. Not that those don't have their own issues sticking to the source material, but I just _cannot_ with that show. Don't get me wrong, the actors all did a fantastic job and it was perfectly cast, but _ugh_. Have you ever read the books? You should really read the books."

Once Jodie Foster a la Clarice Starling could be seen jogging through the woods, Lydia started moving about the room, never really answering his question about any discussions she may or may not have had with Adam and Barbara. "First of all, regarding the show, they were just trying _so hard_ to— to— _dissect_ Dr. Lecter." That Lydia would use this fictional character's professional title with such respect was hardly surprising. "Him and Will both. Less is more, in my opinion. Beautiful C.G.I isn't going to make up for an uninspired script."

"Oh, and don't get me _started_ on Jodie Foster. You know why she didn't come back to play Clarice in _Hannibal_, right? It's because she 'disagreed with the book's ending' and 'felt it didn't fit the character' and 'was only willing to do it if she could direct it.' She didn't even like filming this!" A passionate gesture was aimed at the television. "How dare she try and dictate the feelings and traits of a character she didn't even feel comfortable portraying. They didn't even end up going with the original ending because of her and she still wouldn't take the part! They rewrote a _major_ portion of the script for her!"

"That's the problem with Hollywood. If it wasn't her, somebody else would have pitched a fit about it and gotten it changed to something more _palatable."_ His blank expression served to remind her that he hadn't read them. He wasn't aware of the true ending. "Oh! Sorry, I forgot. You don't know. _Clarice and Hannibal run away together after the scene in Paul Krendler's lakehouse._ She partakes in cannibalism and eats some of his brains," she whispered with a smile, as though it were a great romantic secret. "Using her father's bones, Dr. Lecter tries to brainwash her into believing that she's his dead little sister Mischa, returned to life. It doesn't work. She mocks him and asks if he was jealous that he had to share his mother's breast with Mischa when they nursed, then pulls out her own, and tells him that he 'doesn't have to share this one.'"

Finally, Lydia released the breath she seemed to be holding all throughout her rant, hanging up her uniform on the hook outside the closet door so it would be ready for the morning. "But… the villain never gets the girl. Couldn't film that. The universe might implode. _You should really read the books."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse blinks, fully curious about Lydia's _very_ strong reaction to the mention of the series. Crap. Her expression indicated he'd riled her up again unintentionally. He thought he had this little interaction in the bag! Why could he _never predict her?_

He scrambles a bit, caught off guard at her question, and paws at the front of his suit jacket awkwardly, faux-apologetic. "Ah, nah, I'm not too big of a reader babes…"

His answer it seemed wasn't exactly required. Lydia moves about the room after taking control of the television – he was in _her_ domain, it seemed, and so he settles onto an elbow, fingers entwined on his belly as he watches her and listens. He squints, vaguely shaking his head at certain points, lips pursing as he tried to comprehend her ire in places. "Ah, control freaks – y'know I hate 'em!" he agrees with her at the points he could grasp, fixated, glancing between her and the television. She was eager for him to understand, but in the last part of her explanation, he seems to catch on, eyebrows lifting.

She relates it back to the film, and he suddenly laughs aloud. He's gotten it. Especially as Lydia whispers _so conspiratorially._ "Spicy. I like it. That's a _much_ better ending. Cannibal gets the girl, huh? Donny would be happy," he snickers, "If I knew a little grey matter n' Italian seasoning turns your crank, Lyds, I woulda offered earlier."

With that, Betelgeuse unzips the top of his head as if it was connected by some sort of attachment like one, creaking the top of his cranium opens with a wet crackling sound. Brain exposed, there appears to be some sort of insect life living inside his head, a large slimy green centipede scrambles away into deeper recesses upon being revealed. There's no blood, of course, to be found, and he pokes at one sickly looking lobe, making his eye twitch.

"We can scoop it out like jello anytime you want," he says, as if trying to sell her on the idea jokingly, "I'm sure I have paprika in here somewhere. And an ice cream scoop." He pats his jacket for effect and then looks at her with glittering jade eyes. "Just kiddin'." He tips his cranium closed again, and it closes with the sound effect of an old creaky door slamming closed.

"But that's highly unusual. Usually, the villain gets, y'know, evicted eventually from stories like that. I think I lotta those guys are just misunderstood. He was, y'know, not into stupid people and I can appreciate that. Clarice wasn't dumb. And he was a culinary avant-garde! The human race is one giant buffet if you look at it correctly," Betelgeuse seems to finish his analysis in response to hers, and crooks a finger at Lydia once she'd put up her schoolgirl uniform. "Yer sexy when yer talkin' about _professional opportunists_ like me winnin'. I like winnin'. Does that mean I don't gotta share your knockers either? I have latent mother n' siblin' issues I'm pretty sure that need some reassurance since serial murder is out of the question."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"Dr. Lecter is only the villain in the movies. In the books, he's the _hero_. This is a romance disguised as a thriller." Who didn't love a little sexual tension with their cannibalism? His graphic brain trick broke her concentration, making her bust into gales of laughter. _"Beeeej," _she hissed, calming herself, "stop that!" He was making her break her own rule.

Teasing, unable to help herself, she drew closer at his coaxing with lidded eyes and a devilish smirk. "No, you don't have to _share_. These are _all yours…_" His creeping hands were thwarted before he could mold them over the top of her nightgown. "But you do have to be _patient_ and wait until next weekend."

With that, she turned away from him fully to shut off the lamp on her end table, before returning to his cuddly embrace for a nice innocent snuggle.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

"Stop what?" the ghoul asks innocently, pleased all over that he got his wife nearly laughing as loud as possible, the grin on his face saying as much.

Though afterward, as Lydia approaches him thusly with lidded eyes, Betelgeuse's eyes light up – the smile turning _wildly_ expectant. "Oh yeah baby…" he growls in anticipation, hands about to envelop those sweet, freshly developed breasts of hers that hung right at eye level like the most tempting of fruit. The ghoul easily goes from zero to a hundred, barely needing much except the visual stimulation of _something female_ to get him going. He's fully convinced his coaxing worked - only to be thwarted at the last second as she pulls away and turns over, settling down against him in the dark. Aroused and restless and still in his suit, he grumbles under his breath as she happily returns to his embrace for sleep and sleep alone.

It was going to be that way, was it? _Fine._ The ghost nuzzles up behind Lydia's ear, his stubble tickling the nape of her neck. Baring those tobacco and dirt stained corpse-like teeth, he purrs at her in a low, gritty baritone, his lips brushing the back of her earlobe. His hand runs gently through her hair, only seeming to be innocently stroking through her locks.

Sometimes, women didn't know what they wanted. It was up to him, of course, to show them – especially when they were being obstinate. Betelgeuse was _not_ a seducer in the slightest. Just an opportunist and a lothario of the highest order, but once he learns how to get his way in a situation he never forgets what works. In this case, he kept the touching innocent _enough_, cloaking it under the guise of a perfectly sleepy, loving cuddle. But there was _accidental_ brushing low on Lydia's soft hips, fingers gently dragging along her sides, soft, pleasant squeezing in more sensitive places. He wasn't using magic, as per her rule, but he kept her body close against his own as his hands sneakily, slowly, caressed and worshipped her sleepy prone form. He was going to make her want it.

"Yer the only woman for me babes," he rumbles low into Lydia's ear. "There ain't a woman in heaven or earth or the Neitherworld that's as beautiful, or as funny, or as sexy, or who I like talkin' to more. I'm gonna letcha sleep," he lies, lyingly, as a finger gently strokes at her delicate collarbone. "But, I appreciate everythin' yer doin' for me, y'know. Takin' care of me. Doin' all that thoughtful stuff you do. I'm gonna keep that scrapbook real close to m'heart. You're more than enough, and I hope y'know that."

Denying him eh? This is _war_.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

_Mmmm…_ Lydia liked his stubble. She liked the way it scratched against the sensitive skin behind her ear while he whispered sweet things in that beautiful whiskey-stained baritone. She enjoyed that _very much._ Almost as much as she savored the way he pet her, from the top of her head all the way down to her hips and outer thighs in heavy, long strokes. He knew right where to squeeze, just how much pressure to use to lull any tension she was carrying.

_This was a trick._ Just as she was about to disengage from his embrace and put a couple of inches between them and reiterate her need for _sleep_, he squeezed tight, promising once more in a deep rumble that she was _the only one for him, either above or below or in-between._ That he _appreciated_ her. That she was _enough_, all complete with a tidy disclaimer in the form of a promise to let her rest. A gap tore in her heart large enough for the slimy centipede from his cranium to eat its way through.

"Oh, Beej," she sighed in sleepy surrender, stretching her nimble form into his caresses, hindquarters pressing into the bulge in his suit pants as she strained all her muscles taut before releasing. "You're so _sweet_. I'm yours, I promise. Nobody else's, ever. You deserve to be taken care of. People don't give you enough credit."

Suddenly, she felt guilty for denying him. He was a good man, and what she had done for him paled in comparison to what he had done for her. It's not that she didn't want to. She just knew how loud they could get, how _eager_ he could get. When they were wrapped up in one of their romps, nobody existed but _them_.

"It's not _you_, baby," she reassured, husky and low, tilting her head up to plant a soft kiss on his jawline. "Of course I want to. I just don't want Adam and Barbara to hear. I talked with them earlier, they already know you're here. It wasn't a… pleasant conversation. I wasn't very nice and neither were they. I just want everything to be _okay_."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

Lydia knew his con all too well. If there was one thing she was good at, it was seeing through his relatively transparent attempts at convincing her of things. He could, on the occasion, successfully pull the wool over her eyes – but for the most part, the teenager _let him do_ the things he did with the knowledge that he was always, and would forever be, an opportunist and a con man.

As Lydia stretches against him, sighing out his name, he knows he has her then. The sensation of her rear pressing to his obvious and straining arousal leaves him groaning into her ear in mischievous pleasure and satisfied reward. She strokes his ego, too, which is just about as good as stroking his cock, and he hisses at her pleasurably through his teeth, his palms seizing the moment and pushing up under her nightgown to caress her _entire_ lithe body oh so hungrily.

"Oh baby," he growls in return as she makes her desires verbally known, "Everything will be okay. I'll go back to the Neitherworld soon 'nuff, but if it makes you feel any better, I'll soundproof this room. They won't even hear a peep. Promise," he breathes out the last through his nose, scrambling from the confines of his striped pants as he reassures her.

With a well-placed wave of his hand, there's a hush within the room as if he'd done _something_ at least. What Lydia doesn't know won't hurt her – that Betelgeuse has instead funneled the entirety of the noise that he's intending on making with her down the vents and directly to Barb and Adam's ear. Wherever they are in the house, he's going to make sure they hear _every squeak_ of the mattress and _every breathy moan_ on Lydia's behalf. It will _haunt and follow_ them personally. Fun, fun, fun. They don't like their little illicit trysts, do they? _They'll learn who really runs this show._

The deed done, Betelgeuse goes about ravishing his poor wife as if she had denied him the full week instead of just a few hours. It couldn't be helped with a raven locked siren in his bed, her living flesh calling to him, every part of her taut and lithe and smooth as silk. He doesn't make it past the point of shuffling off his jacket and loosening his tie, the ill-fitting white stained wifebeater staying on as he presses to her, kissing her desperately and deeply, pawing at her underthings. These are dragged down quicker than Lydia could have probably expected, Betelgeuse's meaty, rough fingers rudely delving between her soft thighs in a swift movement and rubbing at her sex insistently to build her up.

"I know what you like," he growls into her ear again, voice low and demanding, "Don't I? I'm gonna fuck you _hard_ baby…"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Within moments of giving the barest of _permission_, he had her hastily stripped and pinned beneath him, a hand shoved between her legs. The nightgown was dragged above her head in a haphazard motion that exposed her breasts, but then pulled and fisted by his unoccupied hand until her arms were trapped and her chest was forced to jut up into his salivating mouth.

He did know what she liked. He always seemed to know. Lydia had once written his talent off as centuries of practice, but now that she knew in her heart they were _made for each other_, it seemed much more likely that his deviant, slovenly lust was a gift from a higher power— _solely for her._

Suddenly, it dawned on her that she had never had full-blown sex in her bedroom before. This was a milestone. It was kinky. No wonder Betelgeuse wanted to do it so badly. That "mom and dad" who actively disapproved of the sinful union taking place in the teenage girl's bedroom _knew he was here and were aware of the possibility of this happening_ was titillating to the more forbidden sections of Lydia's mind.

She loved Adam and Barbara deeply, but this was her life and she was going to live it the way she wanted to. If they had a leg to stand on, she might respect their opinions, but they didn't. The enemy here was her sexual freedom, and after having this beautiful, passionate world opened for her, she wasn't _about_ to let anything compromise it.

"Oh, f-fuck," she stuttered, straining to push his fingers harder against her slick, dewy opening. She was already primed for him, sleek and slippery from all the frolicking they'd done that weekend. Her husband kept her good and fucked, unable to go more than a few hours without reintroducing her to his insatiable cock. A constant wash of cum bathed her insides, to the point that she was going through underwear quickly. Eventually, it seemed more logical to just go without.

Stubbornly, indulgently, he kept petting at her sensitive flesh anyway until it wept even harder, slicking up his fingers. His talons kept him from entering her and had Lydia use of her arms she might have been tempted to chew them off herself. This was _maddening_.

"Please," she begged prettily, fluttering her lashes in a way that was sure to sway his favor. Her husband had a hard time denying her, she'd learned. Arching up further despite the unyielding fist keeping her arms pinned, she rolled her entire body against him, kissing a mossless portion of his neck until her sucks turned to bites. "Make it _bad_," she pled, with dark eyes and voice, "I want to pass out after this."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V. **_

As the snowy mounds of Lydia's small breasts are lifted towards him, the ghoul immediately indulges those. _He loved breasts._ Especially these ones. It was like sucking and licking the finest silk and their shape and size were _perfection_ for his hands and mouth.

Betelgeuse certainly had centuries of experience, but nothing that he'd call truly rewarding sexual experiences outside of the lusty whores he'd frequented. And even then, once his pockets were dry, so were they and out he went unceremoniously. But here there was no end in sight and nothing…nothing compared to the feel of a body that was well and truly _alive_.

It helped, too, that Lydia was so responsive for him. She was indeed a gift, one that held little value in her world, but was a prize of the highest account to someone like him. And to take that prize from the gilded cage her protectors held her within to show her the delights and horrors of the world was gratifying in words that Betelgeuse would never have. She _liked_ the dark, and the dark he brought with him. It was like the imagery of the rosy figure of eternal life coupling with the skeleton of death itself. When he said he could negotiate with her, he meant it – the read he had on her was accurate as he had initially surmised. But how accurate was shocking even to him at this juncture; Lydia curses, pushing against his invasive, lusty fingers and Betelgeuse _groans_ hotly.

She was quick to rise for him and the sound of her sweet begging nearly made him burst right there on the spot. Knowing too that Barb and Adam were not missing out on this was _sexual fervor_ in itself for him. "Anything for you babe," came the growled, breathless reply, even as she arched against him, straining against the vice grip of his fist. She had him, now, and he was turned up to eleven at the sweetness of her request – which helpfully aligned with his desires exactly. Her teeth sank into his neck eagerly and there was no saving her then, especially at her dark, delicious request.

"Fuck…" came his lusty, almost drunken answer to her request. "I'll make it so bad for you baby…"

Without further belaboring, those grit covered fingers withdraw and he pushes and jostles his way messily between Lydia's perfect thighs. Still holding her in place he hunches over her like a rude, ramped up animal, his already drooling cocktip ready to soak her insides once more with his seed. He thrusts into her without any preamble, yawning her flesh over the merciless hardened flesh of his cock. "You dunno what you do to me Lyds," he mumbles helplessly into her ear, "I just get t'thinkin' how soft n' warm n' perfect you are, how _hot_ your body is…the taste of ya…" the thrusting begins and he isn't gentle about it, using one hand to secure her hips as loud, hard slapping of his heavy hips against her, flesh against flesh resounds within her bedroom. "…gets me so _horny_ I can't see straight…oh fuck…nnnh, _kitten…_" words are lost, the delectable walls of her inner muscles, her heat, fogging his brain.

Betelgeuse feasts on Lydia indulgently then, using her lustfully to sate his base desires, switching the pace from hard and desirous to slow and deep just to see what noises he can elicit from her. He makes the mattress squeak and complain. He secures her in various places, her throat at points, sometimes gripping her hips with forceful abandon enough to bruise, pushing her into as many positions as he can think to work himself deeper. He lifts her to his face like drinking from a deep cup at times effortlessly, worshipping the soaking wet crux of her legs with his tongue and lips until she begged before returning her to the steady, unrelenting pounding of his hips and cock. Her furniture is not safe from his efforts either – he hauls her from the mattress, bending her over the pieces he deems fit, rattling their contents onto her floor unapologetically until she wails in pleasure, her long inky hair held in a fist for control.

Only until she becomes delirious and falling in and out of consciousness from exhaustion does he even deign to slow his efforts, as per her request, having stroked her to her peak repeatedly without the use of his magic. He had buried himself deep within her repeatedly for multiple orgasms of his own, never needing to stop or slow, until she was an undeniably sopping wet mess, giving himself sloppy seconds and thirds of his own making. Eventually, once he rolls off of her like the bloated pig he is, he's satisfied Lydia has gotten her request, and they've made a thorough mess of her bedroom.

* * *

_**The Maitlands' P.O.V. **_

Meanwhile, in the master bedroom across the hall— redecorated to suit their tastes— Adam and Barbara Maitland were enduring a _very different_ kind of torture. They heard every moan, every slap of flesh, wet and horrible in their unwilling ears. Lydia _asked_ for this. _They heard her._ She wasn't in need of any parental love or protection, and certainly wasn't in a position to take it were it offered. If anything, the Maitlands could use some salvation.

Barbara paced the floor like a caged animal. Adam stood rigid, hand locked frozen on the doorknob in preparation to storm over there and _put an end to this._ What could they do? They didn't even speak to each other, too horrified for words. The couple had been on a seemingly permanent wavelength with one another even since before dying at precisely the same time, holding each other's hands while the car filled with icy water. They didn't speak then either, coming to peace with their impending death in silent solidarity.

There was no peace to be found here.

"_Tell me somethin', kitten,"_ the monster grunted suddenly, tempo slowing but refusing to stop completely. _"Who's your faaavorite daddy? Me… Chuck… or four-eyes?"_

A heavy slap followed by a high-pitched, girlish shriek accompanied each option. The way he gave Adam's nickname made him feel like the poltergeist was looming behind him, hissing right in his ear rather than enunciating the lewd sounds of their copulation over the ventilation.

"_You!" _Lydia answered enthusiastically, without the mercy of hesitation. Bile rose in Adam's throat, though he doubted there existed an answer that would have been any more comforting. Maybe "fuck you" or "get off of me" or even _"help"_— but she didn't say any of those things. Lydia encouraged him to take and take and take until she didn't have anything left to give. Only once she was fully depleted into silence and the ghoul had apparently had his fill did Mr. and Mrs. Maitland meet each other's eyes again.

Everything that needed to be said was spoken in that one shared look of defeat. They had lost. They won the battle years ago, cursing the devil back to his momentary trap in a moment of divine intervention— Barbara hadn't been able to get a sandworm to trust her since. But, Betelgeuse had won the war. Lydia wasn't theirs anymore. He was good enough to share her, but that was a _privilege_. It was only a matter of time before he grew tired of letting them play Mom and Dad.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The loud, triumphant laughing cackle that is _all too familiar_ to the Maitlands will echo in their minds after Lydia proclaims her assent to his question. After Lydia eventually drops off to deep, exhaustive sleep, Betelgeuse fixes the vents back to normal. As much as he'd love to funnel every snore down to the Maitlands as well, they also don't deserve to hear their affection – like when Lydia sleepily murmurs to him whenever she wakes up briefly in the middle of the night.

He stays with her, possessively, the bed barely large enough to contain him and her alongside. He could always adjust the size of it, but he seems content to squash in the cozy space. Plus, Lydia's room wasn't much larger than the bed itself. As per her rules, he doesn't mess with her clock. At five am on the dot it beeps, and he shoves it completely off the nightstand with a flailing, irritated hand to crash on the floor with a groggy grunt.

Instantly afterward, Barb makes an appearance, opening the door with barely a knock to make sure Lydia was waking up for school. What she was not expecting was Betelgeuse- _still in the house._ She had convinced herself that the ghoul would have left before the morning routine for some unknown reason, and seeing him naked except for a scrap of blanket, plastered to Lydia's side is abrupt and unwelcome. "Oh!" she says, unable to help blurting out, trying not to take in any more of that visual, the night's proclivities on clear display. He hadn't made that up for their benefit, it seems, it had _really happened._

Betelgeuse props himself up on an elbow, not particularly inclined to move. He doesn't say anything, for once – the sneer on his face, full of glutted, serene contentment and utter wickedness says plenty enough for him. He does, however, slide a leg surreptitiously just enough to twist half his ass around into clear view from under the blanket. _You missed out, Barb. Bigtime._

"I was just making sure you were awake, Lydia… we've made breakfast for you downstairs," Barb manages to rush out in a breath, avoiding any kind of eye contact, staring mostly at the floor, a hand up to the side of her face as if trying to block it all out. "Just let me … let me know if you need anything—"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

The loud crash of her alarm clock hitting the floor is what woke her up. The burning embarrassment of Barbara catching her naked with her equally nude husband is what kept her in bed past the allotted time. While she knew Betelgeuse was being incorrigible, she couldn't bring herself to be truly upset with his provocative behavior. Really, he could have done worse— and Mr. and Mrs. Maitland knew he was spending the night. If they weren't going to practice caution, he couldn't be blamed for needling them.

Betelgeuse and Bubby both walked her to school, the former promising to stay invisible to everyone but her. When the bell rang marking the end of the school day, only one dog remained outside to walk her back. The halls and classrooms were decked with pink and white that day, bringing it to Lydia's attention that Valentine's Day was quickly approaching.

Wh_at could she get Betelgeuse?_ A sexual favor of his choosing was the first idea to come to mind, but that seemed uninspired and unspecial. He could already have her any way he wanted her whenever he wanted her— _pretty much._ He couldn't have that many surprises still left up his sleeve.

On their way home, Beelzebub and his mistress lingered outside storefronts, skimming trinkets while the latter frowned at her wallet. Without her father around to pad it with a nice, healthy allowance, her funds had dwindled. The weekly checks he sent were enough to cover groceries and the bills, but no more. She would have to see about getting a job soon. Something easy and flexible— provided Betelgeuse didn't come along and get her fired for the fun of it.

She spotted a couple of things he might like, but nothing he probably didn't already have. What does one buy for the man who can make anything he wants appear with a blink? Maybe… the _Neitherworld_ would have what she was looking for. The first step would be procuring some Neitherworld cash.

Unlike the Deetzes, Bubby treated both Adam and Barbara very warmly. When they came through the door, the Maitland woman greeted the massive beast of a dog with a peanut butter cookie and an ear scratch while Lydia indulged them in idle chit-chat about her day. Adam even enjoyed a game of fetch with the hellhound regularly. Once her homework was done, chores were taken care of, and dinner was warm in her belly, Lydia snuck through the porthole to the realm of the dead.

Twilight blanketed the arboretum, intertwined with lunar beams and starlight, and once more Lydia was struck by the beauty of this place. It felt wrong to sprawl out on such extravagant bedding in her ripped band tee and flannel pajama bottoms, but this is exactly what Lydia did on her way to grabbing the phone from the bedside table. Laying on her tummy, legs kicked in the air like a schoolgirl with a juicy bit of gossip, she input the number to the roadhouse of which she'd already memorized.

"_Hello?"_

"Ginger? It's Lydia."

"_Miss Lydia! We wasn't expectin' to hear from you so soon! How ya doin', doll? Is there anythin' I can do for ya?"_

Exactly what Lydia was hoping to hear. "Actually," she bit her lip, nervous to make her request, "I was wondering if there was anything I could do for you. As in, any chores around the roadhouse, or rooms you want organized? I'm trying to raise some Neitherworld money so I can get Beej a present for Valentine's Day."

"_Awwwwwwww—" _static scrambled over the receiver from the enthusiasm of Ginger's drawn-out fawning sound, _"if that ain't the cutest thing I've evah heard in my entire aftuhlife— oh gosh, oh, honey, I wish we could help ya."_ Lydia's heart sunk, well aware of what the beginning of a rejection sounded like. _"But, me n' Jacques just paid rent n' we're lookin' a lil' cash poor right now. I'm sure BeeJay will understand! You don't gotta get him nothin', he'll be happy just ta see ya."_

"It's okay," Lydia forced a smile so she wouldn't sound too disappointed, "thanks anyway."

_This was bad._ This meant it was time to resort to Plan B, for brother-in-law. Donny wouldn't hurt her and was likely to sympathize with the romantic nature of Lydia's plot. The question of what Donny might want in exchange for payment is what kept her back ramrod straight as she approached the vanity in her lounge with resolute purpose.

_Buckle up, buttercup._ Chin jutting defiantly, hardening in preparation, Lydia took the steps to summon her husband's brother.

"Donny Geuse… Donny Geuse… Donny Geuse…"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse and Donny's P.O.V. **_

Meanwhile, Betelgeuse had discovered an entirely new problem while Lydia was happily within the confines of her school. Bored without her, the ghoul had decided to have some fun on his own in the form of drinking and gambling, which were two of his singularly favorite hobbies besides whoring and haunting. This was the fifth location he had visited in the span of the day and summarily, a Dante's girl was located somewhere within each one preventing him entry. He had tried the Inferno first, but Trixie had looked down from the balcony to laugh at him.

"Ah ah ah, B! Hands off, you're a married man now!" she had mocked him, flaunting her assets over the side of the second floor, "We promised Lydia you wouldn't come in without her! Anywhere you find one of us, you ain't gettin' in for any price!"

Betelgeuse had staggered, throwing a furious and instantaneous tantrum. He tried bargaining. He tried cajoling. He tried begging and pleading like a true cretin. The girls were unrelenting, even as he threatened to leave them a very public and poor review he had stumbled, enraged. For all his ghostly powers old and new, Dante's was stronger - the man knew what he had and was antediluvian. Any member of the dead with any sense within the Neitherworld knew better than to try to turn tricks on the man that invented them in the first place.

He was in the middle of arguing with the bouncer at another bar when he felt the magical ping that let him know Lydia had entered the Neitherworld via the portal. Too involved in his heated argument, he registered it somewhere in his mind as he threw a shoe at the obstinate, oversized ghost guarding the door, immediately encouraging a flat out brawl in the middle of the street.

* * *

It had been a tremendous span of time since anyone had called on old Donny Geuse. So much so that when he appeared in Lydia's mirror his face was thoroughly wrinkled in confusion. Upon seeing the sweet, if steeled girl, his eyebrows flew up to the top of his head, those striking blue eyes so clear and intense as it dawns on him what has occurred here.

"Oh! Well, well, well," comes that familiar, slow twang, so bright and cheerful, "If it ain't Miss Lydia that's said my name the rehquired three times! What a sah-weet sur-prise baby sis!"

Donny is dressed in his usual impeccable manner, everything neat as a pin. She's apparently caught him at home, as he's standing in the kitchen with a dish towel and a scrub brush. "Let me just ah, put these lil ole things away so I can greet you prop'ly." He slides the dish gloves from his hands with the precision and ease of someone highly accustomed to wearing gloves. He slides a bare finger around the edge of his side of the mirror in a strange sort of pleasure afterward, smiling serenely at her. "Y'best back up darlin, ahm gonna come through to your side since y'were kind enuff t'summon me."

Once Lydia does, of course, Donny comes through in a different way than Betelgeuse. Instead of clambering though awkwardly, he slides through like a wisp of smoke, as if he was always traveling through mirrors. For all of Betelgeuse's impatience, Donny was the exact opposite. He smoothly glides in a felinid way into a standing position, his body taking all of the strange angles with ease like an acrobat. He now stands before the girl, brushing off his prim red and white striped trousers and re-adjusting his little bowtie.

"Theah we are. Now we can _see_ each other a lil' better, hm?" his tone is suggestive, but friendly still, that undertone of _nasty intentions_ right beneath the smooth surface. "What a nice…closet…this is…" his eyes carefully rake down the place, lingering here and there curiously. This wasn't the Roadhouse, and he was still in the Neitherworld…so this must be a new house. How very, very, very interesting. He doesn't close in for a hug, instead prowling off to the right to slowly circle around behind Lydia. "What ah…what can ah do ya for, lil sis? Does ole Bee-Jay know ahm here? He'd be _right annoyed_ if he found out I was _intrudin' in…_"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Very subtly so as not to offend, Lydia kept a fair and equal distance between she and her brother-in-law as he swept about the room, eyeing dresses here and there, drawing his pristine fingers across draping fabrics. She never let her eyes off him, even as he attempted lurking around behind her. Just as before, his mere presence was enough to make her skin crawl.

No use in beating around the bush. Might as well get right to the point. The sooner their business was over, the better— assuming he could even help her.

"Thank you," she replied politely, swiveling to keep him within her sights as he darted toward the evening gowns. "Beej put it together for me— and no, he doesn't know you're here." _Why would Betelgeuse be upset to learn that Donny was here?_ Yes, he was an exceptionally jealous husband, but didn't he trust his own brother? He certainly acted like he did.

"I was hoping you could help me out, or more specifically if there was anything I could do for you." Like a dog, she could have sworn one of his ears perked with interest. He was painfully still now, all movement paused, head tilted just so over his shoulder to show his continued investment in her proposition. It was a position that reminded her all too much of her husband. Suddenly flustered, Lydia carried on with her simple request, blushing as though she were asking for something more serious.

"Valentine's Day is coming up, and nothing over there—" she gestured through the mirror, "— seems good enough for him. I want to go looking for something here… but… _I don't have any money."_ Here, she finally averted her gaze, deigning to play with the frayed hem of her oversized shirt instead. "So, I thought maybe if you had any chores that needed doing, or— or— I'm really good at cooking, I could put some kind of dessert together to sell in your shop maybe? It's okay if you can't help, but I would really appreciate it if you could."

* * *

_**Donny's P.O.V. **_

"_Oh,"_ the word comes as a pleasant, burbled near-yelp as if Lydia had touched him someplace very special. He seems to have realized it because afterward the affirmation instead comes as a low, purred hum. "Ohh, oh oh. Oooohhh."

Donny sucks in air through his teeth and clucks, fingering a velvet hem of one of her outfits as he slowly turns to face his brother's wife, his blue eyes almost electric in the closet's bright light. This was far, far too good to resist. "How _deciiiiidedly_ roh-mantic, lil sis. If I'm …. Readin' you right," he pauses to chuckle, greedily, "You want t'do me a _favor_ in exchange fuh _payment…_"

His power over her is total and complete in this moment. Donny's lithe, pale fingers rub together idly and he looks at them with interest, one arm folding behind his back. "Y'know, in mah circles they have a _word_ for that kinda thing, lil darlin', but I'll be kind enough not t'use it in reference to my brother's wife."

He winks. It is an unpleasant thing, and his lips are twisted into a pale smirk. "Let's see. Ah get my ice cream in bulk from a big suppliah, I think your sweet treats would, unfortunately, go to waste on mah clientele. Now…chores…" his eyes drag along Lydia appraisingly, "…ah do on my lonesome, I am fairly religious 'bout how ah keep my little slice o' heaven. Buuuuuuut…" he drawls, thoughtfully, tapping his chin. "Ah do think ah can come up with _ssssoomethin'."_

Mischief glitters in every facet of his fake-genuine smile. "How's about a little duet? Don't misuhndahstand me, I don't mean a double entendre. I literally jus' mean that. I play the piano, you do a little pretty song for me, an' we call it a favor. I'll give ya a nice… _thick_ cushion for that present o'yours in exchange. Enuff to get mah brothah somethin' real, real nice."

He waves a pale hand through her dresses. "Y'can put on somethin' real nice for me. In fact, ah might insist on it…since, you know, this is _mah_ favor…"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

_This was a bad idea._ There must have been better ways to earn money. Surely, there was something hidden in some breather shop somewhere that might spark Betelgeuse's interest. W_hy, oh why did I do this? _Was she some sort of masochist? How was it that she was able to continually construct these scenarios that could only end poorly and barely get out unscathed?

In too deep to back out now, Lydia powered through the crushing sense of dread weighing down on her to force an answer for him. After all, it was _she_ who had gone to _him_ for this "favor." Developing cold feet now would be more than cowardly. It would be _rude_. It couldn't be said by anyone above or below that Lydia Geuse was either cowardly or rude.

However, the nature of his request still drew goosebumps along her arms, arousing the baby hairs at the nape of her neck. Sing a song? Immediately, her gut twisted violently in rejection at the mere idea of it. She hadn't even sung for Betelgeuse— _of her own volition_, anyway. She'd never sung for _anyone_. Long ago, she sang _with_ her mother when the woman was lucid enough to murmur her pretty Russian lullabies, but that was a different time— so obscure and faded it could hardly be considered real.

What Donny was asking of her went beyond personal and careened straight into the taboo. She would have been less taken aback if he'd had the gall to proposition her sexually, especially considering his crude observation that she was _whoring herself out for cash._ At least then she would have been able to give him a hard, resounding **no** and boot him from the lighthouse. As it was, his request was simple, easy, and she couldn't instantly come up with a good enough reason to turn him down.

"I _can't—_" she began impulsively, before catching herself, "I mean… I'm not… I'm not that good. Wouldn't you rather I— _I don't know—_ I could—"

Donny, unconcerned with her nervous stammering, thrust a swathe of violet silk into her arms, as well as a pair of pumps and opera length velvet gloves, both black. With that, he reclined back in _Betelgeuse's_ chair, arms folded behind his head like he was expecting a show. Once more, Lydia's cheeks flared up, but with indignant outrage this time. All he was missing was a cigarette and a couple hundred years sans soap. How dare he! Biting down the urge to whisper her husband's name so that he might come beat up his brother and save her from this mess of her own creation, Lydia stomped out of the room, unwilling to give him the show he so very clearly wanted. The door to the lounge was locked behind her for good measure, nevermind the knowledge that it wouldn't do any good if he _really_ wanted to get a peak.

The gown he chose was an ankle length cocktail dress that would have stayed plastered to her like a second skin were it not for the hip length slit that ran up the side, making it unsightly to pair this one with the plain cotton panties she was already wearing. This was not a dress designed to be worn with underwear of any kind. It was entirely backless, the silk so lightweight and smooth she felt naked except for the heavy velvet coating her arms. The heels made her feel awkward and gangly, hopefully ruining any attractiveness the gown gave her. She didn't even brush her hair, instead taking it out of its messy bun and leaving the rumpled waves to fall about her shoulders in a chaotic heap. _There_. Together with the smudged black makeup around her eyes, she looked rightly disheveled and not at all seductive.

On trembling, inexperienced legs, she strutted her elevated feet right back into the lounge where he was still waiting in Betelgeuse's chair, a lit Black & Mild clenched between his pleasantly grinning teeth. The smell was _wrong_. The man was _wrong_. This was _wrong_.

"This okay?" Lydia asked anyway, with a stiff jaw and upper lip, keeping her gaze straight forward. The answer was irrelevant. If he wanted her to wear something else, she would tell him to go fuck himself and kick him out on her own. Nevertheless, propriety demanded she ask.

* * *

_**Donny's P.O.V. **_

Donny was playing it much smarter than Betelgeuse would have played it. Betelgeuse would have done the base level and straightforward, _you know what I want_ gritted out through slimy teeth. Donny, on the other hand, liked playing and picking at Lydia's mind, watching her in obvious discomfort march from the room to dress for him.

He knew full well which chair was his brother's, of course, and he settles into it to wait expectantly for her – pleased when she refuses him a show. Once she returns, those clear blue eyes raise from where they'd been eyeing the door and Donny's face splits into a wide, pleasant grin.

"Well, well," he purrs happily in an airy, breathy tone of obvious appreciation, "Ain't you a pretty, pretty picture miss Lydia."

It didn't matter, it seemed, that she didn't wear the heels that well, or that her hair was a frumpy mess, or that her makeup was smudged. In fact, all of these things only served to make Donny's eyes twinkle. He could _feel_ every purposeful marker of bitter resistance to his request, and he _enjoyed_ it. It was if he had already done something tragic to her within the confines of this closet.

Lydia wasn't skilled at working the heels he had provided, either, which added to the appearance of an inexperienced sort of youth that made his white teeth sink onto the cigarette harder. "I doubt Betelgeuse has outfitted ya…little…place here…" he was guessing, but guessing correctly, "…with a piana. Never you fret," he rose and caressed the side of the mirror gently, looking back at Lydia purposefully. "Ah have one at mah place. Why don't ya make ya way through this lil ole mirror and we'll get ourselves situated…?"

He insists that Lydia go first, as if suspicious she might attempt to back out once she had trapped him back on the other side of the mirror. Once she does, of course, he follows with ease and they wind up in his kitchen as expected. Donny's house is a mixture of country and modernity that looks well designed, if strange and sterile. It's almost industrial in its coldness. It's a peculiar mix – hard angles and yet soft accouterments with not a single thing out of place. It isn't what someone would term _cozy_ by any stretch even though it purports to be so – and so much white, all around. Swaths and swaths of white as if the entire place was made to mimic some sort of pristine heaven.

The living room to which he leads her is sparse, minimalist in style and mostly soft white carpeting and low, angular furniture. It is sunk into the floor, with a step down from the open-plan kitchen they left behind. There are, strangely, no windows in Donny's house….only lights that mimic the appearance of daylight and cast everything in a bright, even glow. Everything that isn't carpet is white marble, and Donny's shoes and Lydia's heels click across it to where the piano sits before the step down into the main part of the living room space.

"Heah we are, little darlin'," Donny indicates the piano, but also the rest of his place, "Can I…get you anything before we start? Sarsaparilla? I'd be in rehmiss if I didn't ask, a right poor host I reckon."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"Water, please," Lydia requested shakily, just as polite as ever despite her stiff countenance. As reluctant as she was to accept _anything_ from her brother-in-law, her throat was dry with anxiety, stage fright already beginning to set in. Awkward and out of place, she stood rigidly beside his piano while Donny fussed about the pristine kitchen, too perturbed to even dare running her gloved fingers along the flawless ebony surface of the well-kept instrument.

Going from her gilded arboretum to this windowless, tidy tomb of an apartment was jarring. The exit— or what she assumed to be the exit— was within her sights and she longed to make a run for it. Every instinct she had was telling her that this was _dangerous_, that she was making a terrible, terrible mistake. So busy was she staring at the only possible escape route, Donny was easily able to sneak up on her. A mild tap to her bare shoulder made her jump— violently, embarrassingly.

"Sorry," she recovered poorly, running a velvet hand down her burning face in humiliation at her skittishness, "thank you." The water he came bearing was chilled without ice and served in a petite wine glass. Lydia shot it back like hard liquor, though whiskey or rum probably would have done a better job at lubricating her vocal cords.

"Do you already have a song in mind or…? I assume you have sheet music I can follow. I can sight read if it's something I don't know."

* * *

_**Donny's P.O.V. **_

"Of course, lil sis," replies Donny amiably, making his way back into the kitchen to fetch Lydia's requested drink. He pauses on the way back to the sink, his slim pale fingers fingering a tiny drawer next to it as if trying to quell a particularly nasty thought. She was, indeed, well within his power now. Just a tiny tip of the scale and he could have her for himself, in the singular way he desires. Betelgeuse would destroy him, and he would deserve it, but that brief experience of sheer and complete nirvana would surely be worth it? His pale lip curls, and with an annoyed grunt, he wrenches the tap to the sink and pours crystal clear water into a glass for her.

Silently, he glides back Lydia's way and at least gets her with a mild jump scare. She's _nervous_. He can smell it all over her, see it, and it's chipping away at what tightly fisted control he maintains on his own impulses. Lydia flushes with embarrassment. He likes that, too. "Little bit of stage fright, darlin'?" he remarks, smoothly, "Don't fret, jus' you an' me in heah." As she puts the drink away in one go, his eyebrows raise in mild surprise. She trusts him. He almost tuts her at the very idea. Has Betelgeuse taught her nothing at all? Does she trust him completely, too? Miserably foolish girl.

"Ohh, well, I was thinkin' about it jus' now. I suppose _Dedicated T' Th' One I Love_ might be right perfect, I wager. D'ya know that one?" Donny settles in at the piano, pulling from the air in a twist of his wrist proper sheet music, "Ah do indeed have the sheet music heah." He passes it over to Lydia, and smiles brightly, eagerly, those blue eyes so very, very blue as he fixes them on her. In a breath, he is dressed in a white, pristine and fitted tuxedo complete with a black bow tie.

He pats the piano gently. "Why don't you take a lil ole seat right heah, on mah…instrument, and we'll get this goin', hmm?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"I know it," she hushed, barely audible, but took the offered sheet music anyway. Was this some kind of sick joke? It must have been. The pit of her stomach churned as she skimmed over the lyrics for a refresher, hating them. They made her miss her husband so very badly, never mind that they'd just spent the entire weekend together— and then some. It was horrible of Donny to choose something so terribly romantic, so classically beautiful. On some level, it might have been easier if he pulled out a song she hated.

Beneath the velvet, her palms perspired. Even if she were bare handed, she still would have slipped off the piano after her first attempt at hopping up, almost crumbling to the floor messily as the platforms tried to roll her ankles in. In an instant, before she could straighten herself, Donny swept down to lift her by the waist effortlessly and place her on the slick ebony perch to his liking.

"Thank you," she whimpered, ready to cry. Squirming, she inched backward ineffectually in the smooth violet silk of her gown to better situate herself. The slit in her dress conveniently faced his way with how he put her, showcasing an entire pale leg against her will as silk shifted to accommodate her. She kept her thighs clenched tight, unwilling, fearful he'd get a peek up her dress. With a flourish, he whipped the tails of his tuxedo backward as he took his seat at the center of the bench, cracking his knuckles. Her hands shook while she held the music, making it difficult to follow the notes as he began to _very, very_ softly play the opening sequence. This was a stark contrast from how she usually heard this song began and it served to rattle her even further.

"_While I'm far away from you, my baby,"_ she crooned imperfectly at the cue, wavering, only audible due to the gentle strokes of his keys. The blood-pumping organ in her chest pounded furiously, louder in her ears than either the piano or her own voice. _"I know it's hard for you, my baby."_

Every thought was of Betelgeuse. He loved her fiercely, to depths that often frightened her with their raw intensity. It didn't seem real sometimes. He deserved a good Valentine's Day gift. _This was all for him._ That's what Lydia told herself, burying the sudden manifestation of his grimy lips curled into a vicious sneer.

"_Because it's hard for me, my baby,"  
__And the darkest hour is just before dawn."_

* * *

_**Donny's P.O.V. **_

"Theah we go," Donny smoothly purrs after setting the poor, miserable girl onto his piano in an easy movement. He's strong, unnaturally so, and he recovers for her slip nicely. "Sorry lil darlin', it's hard to remembah just how small y'are…and that you don't float!"

Lydia was so dreadfully discomforted it was like serving the younger Geuse brother the finest caviar. Every effort of his to make her experience any better was met with even further displeasure, and as he settles in at the piano his blue eyes drift from the keys to her revealed leg and up to her face – where Lydia refuses to meet his eye. He smiles brightly and gives her the introductory cue.

Her first notes are frightened ones, and the imperfection of them matched the original intonation of the music, that hesitant slowness barely above a whisper that Michelle begins with herself. As for the ghost at the piano, much like in American Psycho when Patrick Baitman holds a nailgun to his pretty visitor's head as they converse, Donny is replicating the sensations but his actions are less brutally symbolic. He doesn't monitor the keys as he deftly plays, softly, electric blue eyes fixed on Lydia as she continues to sing.

Lydia's confidence seems to increase as the song progresses, just enough to even out her tone, the song utterly melancholy on the piano despite the original bounciness of the tune. It is having some sort of effect on Donny that would become clear should she ever meet his eye – that fixed smile, soft beads of sweat on an otherwise spotless face beading his forehead. The reaction is overtly sexual, and his fingers traverse and glide the piano as if he were caressing _her_ or _himself_ instead of the instrument.

"_I could be satisfied knowing you love me  
__And there's one thing I want you to do…  
__Especially for me…  
__And it's something that everybody needs…"_

Donny joins in at the last stanza, his voice a perfect, natural duet with Lydia's. It's awful – he plays and sings as beautifully as Lydia ever could but every aspect of him oozed that they were engaged in something _quite different_ than singing. Donny has a lot of quirks, and it would seem melolagnia is one of them.

The song plays out and the room is left in a short bout of silence, an uncomfortable pause afterward. Donny gently runs a hand over his hair, a strand or two having come loose from the otherwise perfect, slicked back array of blond. The bright electricity from his eyes is gone, and in a swift motion he has placed Lydia down from the piano. Silently, from within his tuxedo jacket pocket, he fetches a good wad of Neitherworld currency and pushes it into one of her pale hands.

"It's time for you to go, darlin'," is the last thing Lydia hears before she finds herself unceremoniously transported from within the confines of Donny's apartment to outside his ice-cream shop, which is closed. What time it is remains unclear except for the watches Lydia wears, but it is clear that Donny has finished _using_ her for her favor. Instead of sending her back to the lighthouse, he has opted to push her out onto the street and let her find her own way back home.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Lydia refused to watch Donny as he played and she performed, instead focusing her gaze on a blank spot of wall where she imagined a window would have looked very nice. She couldn't. She _wouldn't_. If her eyes deigned to glaze over him, she could no longer keep pretending that this was all happening in her head, that she was safe in the shower somewhere, warbling for herself for the fun of it.

It became impossible to continue cultivating this fantasy once his smooth, syrupy tenor joined her lilting soprano. It wasn't _right_ that they should sound so good together, so perfectly complementary. Somehow, she managed to maintain her composure and finish off the rest of the song without a hitch— eyes clenched shut, disassociating. She was still struggling to make sense of what had just happened in the eerily silent aftermath of their duet when he tugged her down from her musical throne with an impatient motion, thrust a fat stack of lilac and periwinkle bills into her hand, and _whooshed_ her away— as though she were little more than an annoying pest tainting the sanctity of his pristine living space with her presence.

Despite the gratuitous wad of cash in her hands, the luxurious gloves that adorned them, and the rich silk of the gown draping her slight form, Lydia couldn't help but feel _cheap_ as she stood outside Donny's closed Eye Scream Shoppe. The street was crowded. People stopped to stare at her, sometimes commenting loudly to one another— _"what a strange and unusual girl"—_ but none actually approached or asked if she needed help. She had never been alone in the Neitherworld before, save the trip to the Inferno. That was different. There was no one to save her here.

The surrounding shops, which she had once found interesting and mysterious now seemed forbidden without her trusty guide at her side. The plethora of spirits around her were dangerous, not to be trusted. Everyone here _wanted something._ Nothing was free. Everything had a price. Things like _common decency_ and the _kindness of strangers_ were myths.

Standing on the street corner and blinking back tears while she did her best to ignore her deceased audience wasn't getting her anywhere, and so she started walking. Where? She didn't know. It was irrelevant, but she could not continue remaining in proximity to the Eye Scream Shoppe. The heels were uncomfortable on her unpracticed feet, and so she took them off in favor of going barefoot, leaving the delicate train of her dress to drag along the filthy sidewalk. An unassuming street sign caught her attention in the mess of blinking, flashing neon storefronts the Neitherworld boasted. **THE WATCHMEN**, it read in a simple, black, classical font. Behind the glass windows, Lydia saw clocks of all kinds; marble sundials, hourglasses made from the amethyst grains of tar beach, towering grandfather clocks carved from the naturally obsidian timber found in the Neitherwoods— each piece bearing an extra thirteenth hour.

Betelgeuse liked watches. Through the window, toward the back of the store, Lydia could see a display case that no doubt contained the kind of wristwatches her husband seemed to prefer. Anxiety fading, ready to explore and get the job done, it was beyond discouraging when the shopkeep stopped her before she could even step foot through the door.

"Ahem," the decrepit spirit coughed, beady eyes glaring at her over the rim of his coke-bottle glasses. It was enough to freeze her in the doorframe, all the awful emotions she was working to bury resurfacing. One of his old, long, cracked fingernails tapped the sign beneath his desk. _No shirt, no shoes, no service._

Crippled with embarrassment, Lydia choked out a quick, horrible "sorry" before turning around and abandoning the store completely. She didn't make it more than a couple of feet before breaking down. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks and she collapsed right on the curb, face buried in her hands, knees curled up to her chest. She was so _pathetic_. So _stupid_. _Why does nothing ever work out like it should?_

* * *

_**Prince Vince's P.O.V. **_

_Miserable_. Just like every other boring afternoon, this afternoon was unequivocally, entirely _miserable_. First, they had slightly overcooked his eggs for breakfast. His daily bath had not been hot enough. The pretty courtiers that tittered pleasantly as he walked past did not do so with as much energy as they had last week. His cloak, he felt, was not as long, heavy, or black as he felt in his _soul_. It was just wretched and as he was carried along in his blackened carriage, Prince Vince felt as though he might never recover. This would be a funk to end all funks.

That is until his strange, Neitherworldy lavender eyes landed on a _perfectly tragic_ figure hunched up with her knees against her chest in the middle of the sidewalk. Ordering the carriage to stop immediately, the skeletal horses pulling it came to a clattering halt just a few feet from Lydia. Before exiting, Vince took note of the pretty girl that looked utterly overwhelmed – her beautiful, if sullied dress, her bare feet, her face – which he couldn't see from within her hands but surmised it must be just as lovely and graceful as the rest of her. The carriage door opens and, dressed in old world blackened velvet, lace and a cloak, the slightly green-tinged prince carefully steps down onto the sidewalk.

His voice is a low, sweet sound, and he makes his way to Lydia where she crouches pitifully. Anyone around him, of course, gasps, bows, and _immediately_ removes themselves from his path or presence, looking away. He wears the _Crown D'entre Les Morts_, a slim but bright golden diadem affixed with stars that signifies him as the Prince of the Neitherworld. With all the fabric layered around him, he looks like something out of an Alphonse Mucha painting.

"Dearheart," he addresses Lydia aloud, smoothly, his voice kind as he gently kneels beside her in a graceful movement that is almost noiseless, "This is no place for a young lady…whatever is the matter?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"_Everything," _Lydia responded thoughtlessly with a pitiful sob, thinking for a moment that she had hallucinated the kind voice. "I left my shoes behind," she hiccuped quietly into her gloves, ready to spill all of her woes onto her imaginary friend, "and Ginger made them for me and— and I shouldn't have done that— and now I can't go in the store— and _I don't know how to get home_— and I can't call Beej for help because— because—" _Because the surprise would be ruined. Because he would be furious. Because he wouldn't understand._

It suddenly occurred to her that she _might not_ be certifiable and that there might have been an actual person with ears at the other end of her hysterical rambling. Very slowly, she unwound from her miserable coil, peaking large honey eyes through the blinds of her velvet-coated fingers. They grew somehow wider, impossibly large with a facsimile of panic at the sight that met her. _"The Prince,"_ she heard passersby hush in amaze as they stuck clear of him fearfully, leaving the royal and the girl alone on the grimy sidewalk. There was no doubt in Lydia's mind that he was what they said he was. He oozed gentility and refinement, an aura of power seeping from him that she had only sensed around a select few denizens of the Neitherworld.

_Oh, no._ Was she in trouble? _She was loitering, wasn't she?_ Like a bum, no better than Winter River's resident drunken miscreant setting up camp in front of strip malls and harassing shoppers for change. Abrupt and clumsy, Lydia scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over her gown on the way. She barely remembered to gather up the mess of cash Donny had given her before it could blow away and invalidate all of her sacrifices. Jerkily, she wiped at the black streaks beneath her eyes, trying in vain to banish any remnants of her misery.

"Your majesty," she gasped, giving the Prince the best, deepest curtsey she could manage, ropes of mussed Raven hair falling over her shoulders as she went. Respectfully, she kept her bloodshot eyes trained on the ground, frozen in her bow. "I'm _so sorry._ Please forgive my impropriety. I— I didn't mean to— to _offend_ his highness."

Despite her best efforts at taming them, stubborn tears continued to roll down her flushed cheeks as she attempted to rectify the situation. _Could this day get any worse?_

* * *

_**Prince Vince's P.O.V. **_

The Prince, it would seem, was quite happy to stay right where he was and listen to her woes, nodding along at her tragic tale of losing her shoes that… this _Ginger_ person had made for her, and that she was attempting to get into a store without them. Apparently too, this _Beej_ person was of no help either. How utterly peculiar!

It is then that she cuts off and suddenly seems to realize his presence is quite tangible, turning her face up towards him. Vince's breath catches in his throat as she does, staring into the face of the most beautiful, marvelous, sweetest eyes and features he'd ever seen. His heart shudders within his chest uncontrollably with a sudden influx of emotion, rendering him speechless. This one was far, far more fair and lovely than he could have ever imagined. On top of that, he can see her _rosy_ cheeks from very _real_ tears. She was not among the dead. She was _very clearly alive_ and it nearly causes Vince to startle entirely backward. It's timed well because Lydia shoots to her feet at roughly the exact same moment.

Gracefully, recovering from his own startle, the Prince ascends to his full stature, which is quite tall in comparison to Lydia, and he very gently and lightly places a slim, emerald toned hand from within the heavy fabric of his cloak onto her slim shoulder in reassurance.

"No no, none of that, dearheart, no," he murmurs, "I am hardly offended. It is rarely that I encounter anyone more miserable than I, and it is a rare treat to meet someone so aware of the weight of the world. Please don't bow, it isn't necessary."

His voice is entreating, kindly, "How in the two moons did you wind up here so deep in the realm of the dead? Oh, ah - nevermind that for now," he quickly ushers the query away as if he had said it on impulse, "You may call me Vince. I am indeed the Prince of the Neitherworld. I am charmed to meet your acquaintance…what is your name, may I ask? Can I help you find your shoes, or at least replace them with another pair…?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

At his gentle assurances and genial manner, Lydia hesitantly straightened from her dip, then allowed herself to study him properly. He was exceedingly tall and thin, almost skeletal, and draped in all the proper trappings of a ghoul of his apparent stature. Behind him, the sight of the cadaverous winged horses that pulled his hearse-like carriage made her jaw drop in wonder, but she quickly gathered herself for the sake of propriety. Tears were drying, lulled away by the frank kindness and honest generosity from this aristocratic stranger. That a _Prince—_ the Prince of the Damned no less— would take time out of his undoubtedly busy schedule to check on the wellbeing of someone as insignificant as she helped to restore some of the faith in humanity that Donny had stolen from her.

"I didn't know there was a monarchy here," she admitted bashfully, quivering voice still on its way to calming. _No wonder Betelgeuse wanted out so badly._ An anarchist trapped under the thumb of a bureaucratic monarchy? Her husband likely despised this _Prince Vince_ person and everything he stood for.

"I'm Lydia," she introduced herself, doing her best to amend her assuredly dreadful appearance. It was dismally unfair that her first, and likely only experience with actual, real-life _royalty_ would begin with her throwing a childish, emotional temper tantrum. She left her last name unspoken, still unclear as to whether it was still legally "Deetz" or something else altogether.

"I, uhm," she began again, looking about the streets with a painfully lost expression, "I don't know where I left them. Donny kicked me out and just _poofed_ me in front of the Eye Scream Shoppe, and then I started walking, but it hurt… so I just… _tossed them off somewhere…_" Immature. _Stupid_.

"I've never been here alone before," she added in explanation so that she might not look as stupid as she felt. "Beej is always with me— but I can't call him this time because then he'll know I'm shopping for a Valentine's Day gift for him and it won't be a surprise. But…" Desperate eyes flickered back toward the store that had denied her entrance. "The clerk said I can't go in without shoes. _I'm sorry, I'm such a mess._ I don't know where I am, or where anything is. I wouldn't even know where to get another pair of shoes— but— I don't know, if you have a spare pair in your carriage or something, I can pay you for them." She twisted the fistful of cash she carried, hoping to remind the noble that she wasn't a _total_ lost cause.

"They don't need to fit or look good or anything. I just need to get into the store." There was a short pause. One of the ghastly horses snorted, stomping an ivory hoof. The slightest of smiles curled her pink lips for a split-second— there, and then gone, so quickly the Prince couldn't be sure it had even happened. _"I like your horses." _

* * *

_**Prince Vince's P.O.V. **_

"It is perfectly lovely to meet you, Lydia," comes the pleasant reply, "And I'm not surprised you didn't realize, I _don't think_ you're native to these parts." The last is said in amusement but intended as a kind sort of attempt at humor.

Lydia can see the hesitation in his face as she mentions _Donny_. There's only one Donny that he can recall that runs a business by that name, and he's the awful relation to the equally awful Betelgeuse. Without any confirmation or further facts other than his own heavy suspicions however, he simply smiles evenly to her to cover it. He calmly listens as she rambles on, too, eyebrows raising mildly.

"That does sound like _quite_ the day, my dearheart. Let's see, I'm sure we can make this right with your permission of course," Vince reaches into his deep cloak and retrieves a pair of comfortable looking simple ballet flats in a leather finish. "These ought to fit you, they'll adjust to the wearer."

He passes them over with a gentle and polite dismissal of her money and adds, "I am _always_ and _forever_ alone, but I can imagine your discomfort with the idea here, in a strange place." Without even thinking, the Prince has additionally adjusted her dress hem in a blink, ensuring whatever grime and poor fit with the flats he's given over is adjusted for and corrected.

"I will accompany you to the store you speak of if you'll have me. I am interested in your… _Val-men-time Presenting?_ It isn't often I meet someone such as yourself in this gloomy place. You have a … light about you that has cleared even my deepest sadnesses away, and that, I can assure you, is difficult to do."

As she mentions the horses, with that tiny whisper of a smile on her sweet little lips that ghosts and is gone, Vince seizes on the moment. "I'm sure they'd like you too. Would you like to meet them?"

He offers her a golden apple fetched from within the same voluminous cloak from whence came the footwear, "They like these if you want to give them a treat. These are all _Nachtmaar_, sometimes called _Mara_ or _Cauchemar_. They won't give you bad dreams, though, so don't worry. They're very tame. The ones up front are Hexe and Una, the ones behind are Strega and Nyx."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

After adorning the shoes and thanking him profusely— and once she was given permission— Lydia only had eyes for the horses. Careful and shy, cautious of spooking them, she approached, making sure to maintain non-threatening body language. They were tall, intimidating beasts that could likely fell her in a single swoop, but Lydia was much more concerned that _she_ might stress them than anything else.

"Hello, Hexe, Una, Strega, Nyx" she greeted them all in turn, eyes alight with stars as she took in their magnificence. "I'm Lydia," she introduced herself politely, as though they were people who might care to know who they were speaking to. "Wow," she wondered, daring to step closer when they showed no signs of fright, "you're all so beautiful… but I bet you knew that." Hexe seemed to stand up straighter as if to say _"Of course, I knew" _while Una dipped her head bashfully. Now, she showed the apple, causing their interest in her to suddenly skyrocket. It was heavy and cold in her hand, almost too large for the tiny limb. Holding it just out of reach, she asked, "Do you want this? Your master gave it to me for you. I know _I_ can't eat it."

The front two shuffled forward, pulling at the reigns and disturbing the ones behind, and Lydia laughed— a bell-like, tittering sound that had no place in this dark gloomy pitstop on the way to Hell. She closed the distance quickly at their insistence, offering each of the four horses a bite each. "Now, now," she tutted when Nyx snorted at her in protest as she drew the apple away, "you have to share. I know, it's horrible, isn't it? Don't worry. The Prince will give you more apples later, won't he?"

A pointed glance was thrown over her shoulder at the watching monarch until she was satisfied he would keep the promise she made on his behalf. When the apple was gone and it looked as though Lydia was ready to break away from them, Strega dropped her head to push her muzzle into the girl's shoulder insistently with a pathetic whinny.

"Oh, sweet thing," she cooed, gently running her velvet-covered hands up the long expanse of its smooth ivory face. Once she had pet one of them, it was only fair to pet them _all_. It was an arduous chore to tear herself away from the beautiful beasts, but it had to be done. "Thank you for letting me feed you," she hushed to them in parting. "I'm sure we'll meet again someday."

Animals adequately seen to and curiosity sated, Lydia returned her attention to the Prince. "They're amazing," she grinned, giddy from the experience, "did you tame them yourself? Was it hard? Where do they come from? Were they born like this, or did they used to be living horses?— _sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself."_ She worked to tamper her excitement with a reminder that she was likely asking him things that were common knowledge to anyone else in the Neitherworld. Princes probably had better things to do with their time than answer silly questions from silly little girls.

"You can help me pick out a watch for Beej… _if you want…_ I could use a man's perspective."

* * *

_**Prince Vince's P.O.V. **_

Vince watched Lydia with a steady gaze and a soft smile that indicated none of the emotions dwelling within – which were varied and heavy as the sweet girl from the living world attended to his horses as if they were people meant to be addressed as such.

His horses, of course, responded to her as if she had known them their whole lives, something which additionally piqued the Prince's interest. He stood as still and quiet as anything, appearing to pleasantly watch the exchange but inwardly his heart was full to bursting. He had so many questions…she abruptly promises the horses more golden apples on his part, and he nods an easy assent. She cares _so very much._ It is obvious in her parting gesture to the creatures as if parting with treasured friends even though she had only known them a few moments.

As Lydia returns to him, he proffers his arm to her genially as she compliments him so easily. His arm is mostly covered by bulky fabric, so it's mostly his cloak, or some other part of his costume that she would be taking. "Thank you for saying so. Come, walk with me," he requests, "And I will answer all your questions about my horses, and I will help you find your watch."

All around them, passerby frantically bow, maneuver out of the way or otherwise find a way of greeting the Prince. He seems to be entirely oblivious to them, as if he were a ghost among ghosts, drifting through the parting denizens as if he were a boat gliding through calm water. It is unclear whether or not his feet are touching solid ground under his layers, so silently and smoothly does he drift along next to Lydia, answering her questions, as many as she has, as quickly as she can formulate them. His patience is vast for her and nothing else – a singular spirit is too late to notice his approach ahead of them. Vince's hand emerges from his cloak and off the ghost goes, pushed as if by air, stumbling out of his pathway. Realizing he had to be removed, the ghost fervently stutters apologies before making himself scarce, but Vince pays the entire thing utterly no heed. He behaves as if he hadn't done a thing at all.

"Once you are done with your shopping, would you mind my imposition in asking you a few questions of my own, dearheart? Nothing too personal, I promise. You are just… _fascinating_, you see. You are of course, at liberty to turn me down. But I hope you wouldn't mind a little curiosity on my behalf."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

Lydia was so wrapped up in asking him about the horses, she completely missed his coarse treatment of the poor spirit who had the misfortune to not notice them coming. They were walking away from **THE WATCHMEN** but a quick glance to her own watch showed that there was plenty of time. She could afford to stroll around the block and indulge _the Prince of the Neitherworld_ in some polite conversation.

"Sure, you can ask me questions if you want, but I promise you I'm really not that interesting," she grinned at the silliness of it all, at the chivalry of his request when by all rights she was a trespasser in his kingdom. He could probably throw her in a dungeon to rot for eternity for no better reason than that he didn't like her face.

"But first, I have a few of my own if you're equally agreeable…" A hard, determined glint lit up her eyes, doing nothing to harshen her features. His presence offered Lydia an opportunity she had never had before. If he truly held as much power as his title implied, then he was the boss, wasn't he? In all likelihood, he was at least partially responsible for the clusterfuck of insanity that was _The Handbook for the Recently Deceased._

"How _does_ one get to be Prince of the Neitherworld?" This seemed like an easy one to start off with. She needed to know the origins of his power before she could determine if he was using it responsibly. "Did you have to die first, or were you born here— specifically for this?"

* * *

_**Prince Vince's P.O.V. **_

"Well, let's see," Vince considers, "I suppose my first question would be _what's your story_ – where do you come from? How did you find your way here…? And how did you navigate your way into the Neitherworld and make contacts here so easily?"

He seems to stop himself then, and raises a hand gracefully, "Ah, feel free to only answer the ones of those you see fit, I know that's a number of queries, apologies."

The pair takes their time in walking around the block, and once Lydia goes through his questions he addresses hers. "I have been told I was alive once, but I don't remember that time. We certainly don't vote in a monarchy, I'm afraid, so my ascent to Prince was not a committee decision." He teases her a little there, but affectionately, "That being said, I have always been told that my title here has always been my title here, it had been assigned to my soul and connected to my lineage for time immemorial. Generally, if you've been told you're ordained to rule over the land of the dead, you firstly don't have a choice and secondly, it's not a position to which I would have said _no_."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"Well, I was raised in New York," she began conversationally, going through the boring parts first, "but I got here through Connecticut. Beej opened up a portal for me so I can come and go as I please from my house in the living world to my house here. I guess it's kind of a long story if I start from the beginning…"

Nevertheless, this is exactly what Lydia did. She recounted to him moving down to the country from the big city, befriending the ghosts that lived in her house and trying to help them scare out her parents to no avail. It was a difficult tale to tell without being able to mention her husband's name aloud. Betelgeuse had more than once boasted his fame to her. Now was as good a time as any to test the truth of that.

"There was a poltergeist trying to sell them on his business— _bio-exorcism_." A soft, nostalgic smile curled her lips as she talked about her husband and his past misdeeds. "He was rude and crass, and Adam and Barbara weren't buying what he was selling. But, my parents and their friends put together this sham seance to try and force Mr. and Mrs. Maitland to perform for them. It was all for money and prestige. _Sick_, really, in my opinion. It wasn't a seance. It was an _exorcism_. So I went looking for the poltergeist, and we made a deal; I marry him, and he saves my friends."

Here, Lydia drew in on herself, still ashamed of how wrongly she had played him despite the many steps she'd taken to atone for her actions since.

"He kept up his end of the bargain. I didn't. This was all… _years_ ago. A couple of months back, the guilt got to me and I called him to finish the deal. So, now I'm his wife and assuming he's not full of shit, that gives me a green card to be here, right? I hope so since you haven't thrown me in any dungeons yet." Humor helped to take the edge off of some of her discomfort. "People here have always been nice to me. It's not like that on the other side. My only friends are dead people."

She was silent while he explained his strange existence and coronation to her, fascinated by the semantics of it.

"That's ridiculous," she responded with wide eyes once he was done, meaning something along the lines of _fantastic_ and _amazing_ and _tragic_. "Nothing here makes any sense! You're in charge of everyone because some nameless, faceless authority said so? A bit ironic, don't you think? If I were you, I probably would have thrown away my crown, stolen one of those horses, and run away into the night, never to be seen or heard from again— _but I also don't think I could handle that kind of responsibility._ The handbook alone is a _mess_, and don't get me started on some of the sexist laws you have surrounding inter-spectral marriage, and those are just the ones I know about. Really, I could stand to learn more about Neitherworld law if I'm going to be spending so much time here."

* * *

_**Prince Vince's P.O.V. **_

_Betelgeuse._

Indeed, that's who she was referring to. He knew, now. Not a single living person had married one of the dead in centuries at bare minimum, and not in his own recent memory. _Out of all the rotten, cursed luck…_ that ghoul had been a regular thorn in his side for the past few hundred years at least. Now, he'd learned the bloated corpse had negotiated his way into marrying this living girl under the pretense of saving her friends. Trickery. Deceit, pure and simple. Betelgeuse had _taken in Lydia_ ruthlessly and used her for his own gain; power.

Typical.

"Yes, you are permitted anywhere he would be, indeed," Vince murmurs offhandedly, frowning at the entire arrangement to himself. He tries to cover it with an awkward little smile, "Ah, no, no dungeons. We don't do those anymore really…we use Sandworms nowadays. Much more humane."

"That is strange that your only friends are dead! No one at all is nice to you among the living? Well, they do tend to be rather invested in themselves. I suppose it's why we don't trust them, among other things. Er, current company excepted of course."

At Lydia's description of what she'd do in his place, he laughs aloud. "Points for creativity my dear. Unfortunately, I'm afraid that's not how it works…when the Neitherworld forces have arranged for something, it _will happen_ whether you consent to it or not. So you might as well. It isn't all bad. Lonely, of course, but that's the nature of it."

Her description of the handbook gets an amused laugh as well. "Ah, the handbook. Did you know we didn't have one before the 1700s? It was every ghost for himself. Imagine being the ghosts you live with…these… _Maitlands…_ and not even knowing how long you're in your house. Or about the Saturn perimeter boundary! Or about the planes, and what _they_ do and how to cross them. The handbook is not perfect by any means, but they do keep revising it. It's hard to produce new issues, you know. Updating those things is never easy. It sounds like you have plenty of ideas though…I do have a library that includes many of our law books if you'd like to see it. Another person you mayhaps be interested in speaking to is Juno – she's one of our hardest working caseworkers. Or perhaps Io, he's another one. They know the most about the inner workings of the law. But I can give you some basic reading since it seems you've gnawed your way through the handbook."

He pauses briefly and then looks up to see the sign for the Watchmen before them, and his carriage alongside. "We've come round to where we started. Oh! We were standing outside this silly place this entire time! I'm afraid that even Princes sometimes lose their heads, dearheart!"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

With rapt attention, Lydia soaked in everything the Prince had to say, imprinting the information to a sealed tight vault in her mind labeled Neitherworld. Everything about the inbetween land fascinated her and she wanted to know it all. _Sandworms humane?!_ Any immediate protest was squashed in favor of not disrupting this flow of knowledge. This was the second time now she had been referred to meeting this _Juno_ woman, already aware of her status as Mr. and Mrs. Maitland's caseworker. Her reputation certainly preceded her.

"A _library?"_ She marveled, feeling quite small indeed. The possibilities of what books he might keep and the secrets they held was too powerful a concept for Lydia to process in a timely fashion. Wondering along at his side in a state of awe, all troubles forgotten, she was just as surprised as he to find that they'd circled round to where they began. "Nobody's perfect," she gave the cliche with an awkward shrug, easily forgiving and waving off his lapse in observation.

The Prince moved confidently, swinging the door open with a flick of his wrist that canceled out her impulse to open it for him. The same clerk that denied her entrance before now groveled, refusing her money and offering up his most polished, valuable wares free of charge to the disinterested Prince.

"Actually," Lydia chimed, doing her best to get the watchmaker's attention over his fawning, "— I'm trying to find a gift for my _husband—_" Finally, the elderly spirit seemed to get the message, switching his attention to the proper party after seeing a flash of something unpleasant across the monarch's face.

"Yes, dearie, of course, sincerest apologies. I am an old fool, you see," he apologized profusely, bowing his head so deeply his glasses threatened to fall off into his long white beard.

"It's okay," Lydia smiled, soft and sweet, once again showing forgiveness, "I'm sorry I didn't have shoes before. It's been a very strange day. Anyway, I'm looking for a watch for a man who has _all sorts of watches_. He used to wear four, but now he wears three since he gave me this one—" she brandished her husband's gift to her with a lovely smile, like a perfectly proud wife. It wasn't of terribly high quality and the clerk was visually unimpressed, but he didn't dare say anything that might offend the girl for fear of his immortal soul. "This is a romantic gift, so I was hoping to have it engraved as well if you offer that service…?"

* * *

_**Prince Vince's P.O.V. **_

Cold eyes met the shopkeeper, and the smile that had been so warm on the Prince's face as he engaged Lydia dissipated into a severe regal line. This is more than likely what he looked like regularly; severe, intimidating, his eyes radiating a dark pit of displeasure and sadness. It seems, however, that Lydia is fairly well distracted in picking a watch, and the Prince stands behind her as if he were some sort of support-shadow.

He lets the doddering old ghoul with milky eyes turn his attention to Lydia formally on his own after that expression of displeasure crosses his face – his apologies reach deaf ears as far as Vince is concerned. This behavior towards him is regular and irritating, and more often than not he prefers not to be addressed at all. Ordinary people were dull and stupid, and hardly worth the ectoplasm they were created with. He had personally sent more than just a handful off into oblivion for the simple offense of annoying him; a fact that Lydia would probably not learn just yet…if at all, if Vince had anything to say about it. She seemed very much a _bleeding heart._

"W-well," the shopkeeper stutters, adjusting his glasses and squinting, suddenly seeming to realize how _very much alive_ this girl appeared, "Yes, we do offer engraving…we offer many styles of watches here. We offer them for all planes, all time abnormalities, planetary time zones and also the living realm for novelty purposes of course," he shifts a wary glance to the Prince, who's blank and severe expression had not changed. Comforted it seemed by this, the shop-keep continues, "Ehm, hmh, if you don't mind my asking, what sort of man is your husband? It might help inform us…"

Internally, Vince was _horrified_ at the very prospect that Lydia, his perfect and fascinating new prize, was here to pick out a _romantic gift_ for … for … _Betelgeuse_. The only romance that slovenly pig of a ghoul probably ever thought about were two roaches humping for his entertainment. It was as if a living piece of vile detritus had burbled up from the muck to touch him in some way, and the frown on the Prince's face increased at the idea of it. While he had made it a point never to interact with lowly scum so begrimed as Betelgeuse, the ghoul had interfered with the fabric of the Neitherworld often enough to become an _irritation_. Had he been any more involved with the problems the ghost created, Vince would have easily exorcized the striped pest himself – but each time he had been stopped or distracted well enough not to pursue it. Unfortunately, now there was another _problem_ with ridding him – having been married to Lydia, he had a whole new slew of power…the Prince could no longer simply wave a hand and send him to the Lost Souls room. _How dreadfully unfortunate._

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"Oh, he's a terrible bully," Lydia disclosed with a sly smile, as though she was telling a great secret, "and a jerk, and a sore loser… but it's all an act. _Really_, he's funny and sweet and thoughtful. He's my best friend." Continuing on, she described his tastes to the watchmaker; expensive, but gaudy with a twist that made it just work, and he showed her to the display cases at the back of the store that had drawn her to the establishment in the first place.

"Your work is _amazing_," she complimented, eyeing the precious metals, stones, and leathers in astonish. There were dragon and lycanthrope hide straps, among the beasts whose names she could recognize, and glimmering sun and moon and sea stones. Many of the clock faces were blank, ready to be etched with markers for whatever time space the consumer desired. Staring at them all and imagining all the wild possibilities gave her an idea.

"Would you be able to make a watch that _shows_ him where I am at any given moment? He's very possessive… and _incredibly_ wound up. I think something like that might help him calm down."

A glint of unease passed behind the watchmaker's glasses. Uncomfortably, he shifted his gaze back and forth between the Prince and the mortal. "I am _capable_ of making something like that, yes, but it would take… _quite a hefty price."_

"I can pay you," Lydia insisted once more, brandishing her wad of bills, confused and humbled. Behind her, the Prince's pleasant mask rippled.

"No, no, no, dear sweet Lady, of course not," he rushed to save face, groveling once more, "I wouldn't dream of taking monetary payment from any friend of his lowness, his majesty, the Crown Prince, never, not in this millennia or the next… but the creation of a timepiece of that caliber requires certain… _ingredients_ that you may find yourself unwilling to part with."

This was enough to give Lydia pause. "… such as?"

Deeply fearful of the repercussions of being so bold as to even offer this breathing, mortal child such a thing, but unable to refuse, the watchmaker named his price. "Just a tiny, eensy, teensy little _drop_ of your soul. Not even enough to miss really, and certainly not enough to affect your day to day ehrm— life, as it were. Absolutely not enough to affect your death."

The girl blinked, intrigued, but not completely turned off. "Would it _hurt?_ Taking it?"

"Only the slightest prick. Like taking a drop of blood, only a tad more… permanent."

_Anything_, she once promised him, before he gave her everything. He could have this. "Deal," she agreed, with steely conviction and a firm nod. "I'll pay. Now, I'm not a fan of the wrist straps made from animals for personal reasons, but I don't want my own bias to get in the way of the decision. What do you think, Vince? The white gold could do him justice nicely, I think…"

* * *

_**Prince Vince's P.O.V. **_

It's a good thing that Lydia is not facing Vince. The expressions that are threatening to spill all over his face are a mixture of horrified and livid, and his pleasant countenance is being _tested_ in more ways than one. Betelgeuse was a cheap, gauche _mess_, nothing about him _worked_. In fact, he recalls every time Juno would complain to him idly about the man _not working at all._ He was a living garbage fire. He _smelled_. He saved _his own bodily fluids in his jacket._ And this information was given to him second hand, it did nothing to remark on the man in person. In person he was one hundred times worse than described – Vince had only encountered the ghoul twice, and he hoped never again for a repeat. The amount of detritus, snakes, lizards, rats, old cigarette butts, crumpled paper wads, things with mysterious stains and otherwise that fell from his pockets when looking for documentation on the court floor was headache enough.

As Lydia goes on to describe his _possessiveness_ and what she's looking for in a gift, Vince's lavender eyes widen enormously at her back and he has to stifle a choking noise. It wasn't an inaccurate description – Betelgeuse was like a dirty little rat with a cookie and if you tried to take anything from him, even small things, he would bite your fingers severely. The mental image of keeping the ghoul in a small terrarium while he romanced this young lady was not an unpleasant one, and it kept Vince from _yet another_ noise as the watchmaker mentions a price.

_Her soul?_

She was willing to put a droplet of her _very life force_ into a watch to give it to a living pig trough?! Vince has to quell every single fiber of him wanting to step in and firmly deny Lydia this option. But, she seems quite set on her decision at the end – so startled is the Prince from his indignant thoughts by way of her question that he stammers at first.

"Ah! Uhm, oh! Well, ah, leather and animal product doesn't last as long as things like gold and other fine metals. Since this will be on his wrist for his eternal rest, I think you are thinking in the proper way regarding the white gold."

His throat felt like sandpaper, and the room suddenly seemed all too small and crowded. "Are you… _sure_ about this, dearheart? Far be it from me to dissuade you, but this is quite a precious commodity."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"I _hope_ he wears it forever," Lydia breathed out dreamily, before turning her most brilliant smile on the Prince. "Haven't you ever been _in love_, Vince? Ever once your entire rule? It's _okay_. I trust him. I know he has a bit of a reputation… but he's _more than that._ Just like I'm certain that you're more than whatever your subjects think of you." Countenance gentling even further, she stepped closer to the monarch as if proximity might better impart the message she wanted to leave.

"_My bounty is as boundless as the sea,  
__My love as deep; the more I give to thee,  
__The more I have, for both are infinite."_

After a beat, she asked, "are you a fan of Shakespeare? Macbeth is my favorite, but Romeo & Juliet is a soft spot for us. Think of it like this; by giving him this part of me, I ultimately strengthen it— myself. Get it?" Returning her attention to the selection of watches, she proceeded to concur with at least one of the Prince's previous assessments. "I agree. The white gold _would_ look handsome on him."

"Ahem," the watchmaker interjected awkwardly hoping to distract, able to read the Prince's growing ire better than the oblivious, pure, sweet mortal girl, "might I recommend a lunar gem inset? They're highly reflective and would provide a clearer image for your husband. A lucky man he is to have such a generous, young, pretty wife. These over here were excavated from the glaciers of Helene, or if you'd prefer a cloudier variation I have these that were formed in Pandora's frozen dunes."

"Oh," Lydia gasped at their beauty. Hardly able to choose, she went with her gut reaction "the one from Helene, please. They're both so stunning, though." The gem was rounded, smooth, and silvery, as large as the face of a wristwatch on its own— luminous, but not enough to draw the eye unless one were scrutinizing. She took off her gloves, setting them on the counter in able to hold the gem in her bare hands— revealing her simple silver wedding band in the process. "It's perfect! Thank you so much! And you can engrave an inscription directly on this, right? Could you put it in a circle, where the clock ticks would usually go, so it looks like a normal watch at first glance?"

"I most certainly can, dear Lady," the watchmaker acquiesced easily, charmed by her enthusiasm. "Just write down whatever you'd like me to inscribe _here—_" he passed a piece of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell across the desk, "— and I'll put this piece together for you. Then we'll do the last bit— _it's a quick, simple process, sweet Lady, I promise—_ and you'll be all set to go! I do so appreciate young love."

* * *

_**Prince Vince's P.O.V. **_

Vince's perturbed face is forced to crawl back into a serene smile, albeit an unsure one, as Lydia whips around with that beatific smile of hers. "I…" he stammers, but it seems that Lydia has already moved on from the question, especially as she mentions _what his subjects think._ Who _cares_ what they think? This was his destiny, all of it, to rule and lead. He had a role to fill! It was more than just _feelings_ and _thoughts_. As the beautiful living girl steps towards him, though, he is pulled from his disgruntled internal resistance to her opinions and immediately sucked down into honeyed eyes as she breathes that poem to him.

Was she saying this to _him?_ So overwhelmed is he by her gesture, he only halfway hears something about Shakespeare and giving a part of her away for the ultimate reward of being stronger for it.

"Oh." Is all Vince finally says, unable to think past that, regretting Lydia moving away. His chest thrummed, and he ached woefully. Betelgeuse didn't _deserve_ her. _Not one bit._

Lydia merrily busies herself with the rest of her watch purchase, and as her wedding band catches the light, Vince's heart sinks all the more. He couldn't have her. But that inscription….

….there were still _possibilities_. Just because she had given her heart to that disgusting _thing_ didn't mean he couldn't woo her until she gave her body to _him_, right…? He would treat her so much better, of that he's certain. The watchmaker hustles the process along as quickly as possible to get the Prince and this girl off on their merry way with his skin intact.

The watchmaker is gone for a few moments as he works on constructing her well-tuned timepiece to her specifications exactly. Normally, this piece would be a hefty sort of purchase, far beyond the money that Donny had given her.

"Dearheart," Vince murmured dreamily after a moment, his plan of taking at least some of her for himself solidifying in his head, "I think…you've made an excellent choice."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"You really think so?" She worried at her bottom lip, a genuine furrow in her brow. "Not too… _sappy?_ I'm worried it's too flashy or— or _sentimental_ for him. I've never given a Valentine's gift before…" Here, she paused to consider the Prince, remembering that he was ignorant of certain things due in part to his ancient existence— just like Betelgeuse. "Sorry, I forgot. Valentine's Day is a day to celebrate _love_. Exchange gifts with your special someone; flowers, chocolate, trinkets and such. It's kind of a big deal with living people. They can be _gross_ about it."

No one in the Neitherworld seemed to be celebrating. No two-for-one discounts, no streamers or flowers bedecking storefronts, beating the spirit of the holiday into their consumers. Everything seemed just as perfectly strangely abnormal as always. Soon, the watchmaker returned, toting the expertly crafted timepiece with both hands.

"My masterpiece," he lauded, near tears as he very gently passed the watch over to its commissioner, "_truly_ one of a kind! Please let me know if it isn't to your liking, milady. I would gladly keep this one to sell in my shop if you'd prefer something less—"

_Perfect_. "No," Lydia denied immediately, running her thumb in a complete circle around the bulbous, reflective gem, tracing etched prose on her way, "it's… _impeccable_. I couldn't have asked for a better watch. _Thank you,"_ she imparted once more, meaningfully, to the proud old geezer. "Are you sure I can't convince you to take some of this money off my hands? I really don't have any use for it."

The clerk wished very badly to take the overly polite young woman up on her offer, but some things just weren't worth the risk.

"_Never,"_ he promised, trying very hard to ignore the pile of cash on his counter that wouldn't have completely paid for the opulent wristwatch anyway. "The pleasure is entirely mine, dear Lady. Now come, come, stand _right here_ and we can put the— er— _finishing touches_ on your gift, hm?"

Following his silent direction, Lydia moved to the designated spot right in front of the watchmaker, unable to quell her increasing trepidation. Deep breaths helped. Closing her eyes helped more. Without sight, she relied on her other senses. She could _feel_ a ragged fingernail tracing an indiscernible symbol on the bare flesh just beneath her collarbone, could _hear_ the low, strange incantation he muttered just before pinching the area he traced without catching skin. However, just like the Prince and the watchmaker both, she was unable to _see_ the shining thread of pure white light that was being pulled from the center of her being. She heard their gasps but kept her eyes closed from sheer nervousness as the watchmaker blindly and clumsily imbued a piece of her very soul into the gift— as per her request.

Seconds later, once silence laid heavily over the room, Lydia cracked her gaze only to find two equally befuddled ghosts staring at her; silently, eerily.

"Is something wrong?" She queried, prior worry back with a vengeance. The collective unease between these two very different spirits was thick and unmistakable. "Did it work?"

* * *

_**Prince Vince's P.O.V. **_

An entire name for a day dedicated exclusively to _love?_ How peculiar. It seemed a bit silly, in Vince's opinion, but he wasn't about to tell that to Lydia despite her affirmation that the living tended to overdo it. He idly wonders if Betelgeuse even knows about Valentine's day himself, being the putrid pimple that he was. If he didn't, and Lydia was broken because of it, oh…that might be another chance, indeed. _Interesting_.

He's lost in thought about this after murmuring an understanding assent to Lydia regarding this holiday as she and the watchmaker begin the ritual to imbue her soul into the dreadful, romantic thing that is intended for Betelgeuse. Of course, what happens next is something that floors him out of his plotting and vague irritation altogether.

Oh.

_You have to be absolutely, completely joking._

Vince had not been expecting this when he started out today. He hadn't been expecting to meet the most enchanting mortal girl of his life, only to be told she's married to _the worst sort of non-breathing detritus_ this side of the Neitherworld.

And now this.

The pure white silver thread that explodes light all around Vince and the watchmaker, so much so that it blinds them both almost instantly upon emergence from within Lydia. This was an unmistakable, shocking revelation:

Lydia, this living girl, was, in fact, an _angel_. A literal one. One of God's chosen souls, a creature of pure light and positive energy. Her mortal coil was simply a shell for the clean, bright, happy energy within her that would explode upwards to Heaven once she met her end. She was not meant for this place, this liminal existence with any of _them_. It was not the first time Vince had seen an angel, and demons regularly inhabited the Neitherworld in hopes of pulling whatever scraps they could from it like a harvesting ground. But to see such a thing nestled contentedly within an oblivious mortal before his own eyes, having not expected it whatsoever, was shocking. Angels were, at minimum, rare – and proof that some sort of pure good energy existed in the universe, polarized to the exact opposite. It didn't exactly prove a God, either though that's what everyone simply attributed it to as some mysterious force generated these souls…and likewise, the demonic entities that scrounged the Neitherworld sucking up hedonism and vice and cruelty to feed themselves.

At this point, Vince is unable to keep the gawp off his features, and neither is the watchmaker. "Oh! Uhm, uh," the craftsman babbles at her question. "Uh yes indeed! It worked!" his terrified gaze shifts over to the Prince, absolutely helpless, in fear that he had just made some artwork so powerful as to offend his lowness. Indeed, the watchmaker had just created a religious artifact, immensely powerful and imbued with some of the most intense good energy in the entire universe.

"It worked," Vince confirms, refusing to let the girl know of her divine origins, hesitating on how to phrase it. He finally settles on, "You …. have a …a…..very _beautiful_ soul, Lydia. That's all. We should…go, now, and trouble this man no further. I can take you home in my carriage if you'll have me do so."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

"Is it really?" Lydia flushed deeply at the Prince's compliment and broke into another pretty grin, unable to help herself. "I didn't see." Marveling, she turned the brilliant watch over in her hands, scrutinizing each detail obsessively. _Some of her soul was in there._ She couldn't spot any discernible differences. There might have been a glimmer of some kind of light deep within the heart of the stone, but maybe it had just caught a glare from the overhead lamp.

After the watchmaker fetched a crimson velvet box for the fine watch, the Prince and the girl exited the establishment, Lydia once more hooked onto his arm at his quiet, polite insistence.

"Thank you so much for your help, Vince," she expressed her gratitude, hovering beside his carriage but not entering yet. "I couldn't have done this without you." Had the generous royal not shown up like a guardian angel, she would have been forced to call Betelgeuse and invalidate all of her efforts. Surprising her husband was not such an easy task, apparently.

"Are you sure you can take me home? I don't want to take up any more of your time. If you could bring me to a phone, Jacques or Ginger would probably come get me— or, the girls at the Inferno bar would help me out if that's a shorter ride. I'd hate to inconvenience you after you've been so kind."

Frowning, she once more turned up her fistful of bills gingerly in his direction. "Are you sure you don't want this? I can't take it home. _It's evidence._ You could donate it to charity."

* * *

_**Prince Vince's P.O.V. **_

That bright grin that Lydia throws the Prince at his compliment is dazzling, and his heart seems to only shudder and break further at the very idea of her nature and the rotten corpse that got to have her. As they finally left and her arm hooked into his, Vince couldn't help but feel like they should simply remain like this. It felt _terribly natural._

"Oh no no no, I can bring you home my dear." Initially, the list of people she mentions doesn't register immediately to Vince, but then one word crawls back into his brain.

"_or, the girls at the Inferno bar would help me out if that's a shorter ride"_

Something clenches in Vincent's poor, beleaguered chest. The INFERNO bar? The girls _there? Common whores?_

He had found her on the street looking like she had just…come away from a rather unfortunate romantic encounter, potentially, trussed up like she was. He knows she had just come from Donny's, Betelgeuse's brother's place…and now she mentions the Inferno girls as if she knows them too.

_Betelgeuse is whoring her out. He is whoring her out to his OWN BROTHER, and potentially to anyone that would pay enough. The ghoul loved money more than his own right arm._

The thought is shattering and Vince suddenly tightens her arm within his, his brows knitted in severe consternation. He doesn't want to bring her home but he must, but part of him is already absolutely dedicated to protecting this perfect, beautiful angel. How could so much tragedy have befallen her?

She tries to offer him money again and he suddenly clasps her hands. "My darling Lydia, I have no use for that either, but you may give it to my footman. I would be honored to guide you home, though…can I ask you something, perhaps imposing again, but I _must_ ask?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

_My darling Lydia. _

That was an _awfully_ familiar way to address her, but Lydia was accustomed to collecting affectionate nicknames from residents of the Neitherworld and so she brushed it off, thinking nothing of it as the monarch gathered up her hands so gently, yet desperately.

"Of course, your highness," Lydia acquiesced easily, the slight quirk to her brows the only indication that she was at all leery of the Prince's mannerisms. "You can ask me anything you'd like. Ehrm—" Uncomfortable with such close proximity, she disengaged politely "— just a moment, please."

"Sir," she greeted the footman; a stoic, cloaked being manning the reigns of the Prince's carriage. He was just as dark, brooding, and pale as his lord, his attire only marginally less lavish. The entire time the girl and the monarch had strolled and shopped, Lydia hadn't seen him move once. At her direct address of his person, dark eyes rolled to the side to gaze down at her while the rest of his face and body remained frozen. A small shiver ran up her spine. "Would you be so good as to take this off my hands?" A fistful of crumpled bills was thrust up toward him. _"Please don't say no,"_ she requested smallishly, frowning. A third strikeout would have been quite disparaging indeed.

"As you wish, m'lady," he complied in a smooth, cold baritone, accepted the gift she offered, and then settled his aloof stare straight ahead once more.

"Thank you," Lydia sighed out in relief, beaming. "Oh, and please, if you could use some of it to buy something nice for the horses, I would really appreciate it."

There was a crack in his stony countenance. A barely there smile upturned the corner of his cold, dead lips. "As you wish, m'lady." Just as quickly as it was there, it was gone.

_Wonderful!_ At least the duet with Donny wasn't a total loss. Appeased, Lydia returned to the Prince's side and allowed him to usher her into the confines of his lush carriage. It was spacious and cozy, with modern tinted glass windows that allowed occupants to see out yet blocked others from seeing in.

"My address is 666 Creeping Cove," she informed the Prince, crossing one leg over the other comfortably as she sunk into the lavish seating. Unwinding from the events of the past few hours, her head lolled back and eyes closed, a deep sigh expelling from her lungs. "What was it you wanted to ask me?"

* * *

_**Prince Vince's P.O.V. **_

Well, now Vince knows where she lives. But, more pressing matters were occurring to his Lowness, stoppered only briefly as Lydia crosses her legs. It causes the dress she's wearing to slide through the slit that goes all the way up her thigh, revealing a creamy, white, long leg. The Prince stiffens, and clasps his hands at his knees, keeping his legs tightly together across from her. Though, as she lolls her head back he can't help but drag those unusually colored eyes of his shamelessly up the pretty limb. He swallows, audibly.

"O-oh, ah, well, it was just…to ask you if you could… promise me something—," his voice sounded tight and somewhat small, hesitant as his eyes lingered for as long as was reasonable on her, for as long as Lydia wasn't watching him. "If you should need anything, anything at all, that you'd … call on me? I know that's a bit imposing on my part, and you did mention all these other people, it's just…ahm, it would be my pleasure to … assist you should you need it again."

From within a jacket pocket, the Prince produces a small obsidian orb, one that easily fits into a pocket, sort of like a little marble and offers it to Lydia. "This is what is essentially my calling card. Your…husband has his name, I have this. I can't see through it like you can with that new timepiece," he reassures, lifting a hand, "It is simply a tether. Sort of like…calling a cab. If you lift it up high above your head, I'll know and I'll come."

Time seems to pass differently within the carriage than it does outside of it, peculiarly. It almost seems like they arrive at the lighthouse as if transported temporally, as the horses clip to a stop far earlier than Lydia could probably expect, directly outside of the remote location's door.

"Ah, here we are my dear. Home again, safe and sound."

He helps Lydia down from the carriage with a gentle smile, his easy countenance returned. Taking in the lighthouse briefly, he wonders if Betelgeuse is held up in there, watching. A part of him hopes so. _Mongrel_.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V. **_

The little glass orb was hypnotic, flickering different shades of violet and emerald when she turned it this way and that as she rolled it in her palm, before settling back to black.

"Oh, Vince…" Lydia gasped, staring across the carriage at him with something akin to admiration. _Why would he…?_ Did he care about all of his subjects this much? He must have. She wasn't special. Still, this was beyond generous, teetering off into _something else_ Lydia wasn't quite presumptuous enough to name. "This is too much," she started to reject his offer, shaking her head, "but… if you're _sure…_" There was something final and determined in his expression that told her no would not be an acceptable answer this time, and she shouldn't even try it. Her fingers curled around the marble.

"_Thank you," _she imparted for the umpteenth time it seemed, humbled that someone of such status would offer personal, instantaneous service to her. "But… I can't imagine why I might ever need it," she admitted, having already decided she would never, ever call upon the sweet, generous Prince and waste his valuable time.

"You're going to make a _wonderful_ King someday," she extolled as he escorted her down from his carriage with all the manners of a proper gentleman. The sight of the lighthouse was welcome and familiar, inspiring a deep, comforting sense of relief. The day had been long and trying, but now she was home— victorious. Everything she set out to do had been accomplished, albeit not in the way she imagined, but it was irrelevant. In the grand scheme of things, it had been a good day.

Taking the monarch off guard, she threw her arms around his neck in a warm, brief hug.

"Goodnight, sweet Prince," she hushed into his shirt, him being much taller than her— like most people— then finishing the quote over her shoulder as she pulled away, turning to pull the latch on the crooked iron gate, "and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!"

* * *

_**Prince Vince's P.O.V. **_

"You are very welcome dearheart," replies the Prince, pleased with Lydia's flattering response, attempting to appear nonchalant. "It is nothing, simply a gesture to reassure _me_. The Neitherworld is not a kind place to the living at times. It can appear that way on its surface, and I doubt you'll run into anything serious, but _just in case._ You are my only subject with a life to lose," he jokes lightly, sensing her hesitation and questioning.

As she praises his efforts as a ruler, he smiles warmly to her. "That is a terribly high compliment my dear lady!" he replies, seeing her down from the carriage genially, and is shocked when the petite girl flings herself into his arms and layers of robes. For a moment, Vince is thoroughly thrown and has no idea what to do about it. Such an affectionate gesture had never been bestowed upon him, but he is reminded of her angelic nature fleetingly and rationales this must be some part of it. How _tremendous_.

_Or she's secretly in love with him and wants him to be King._

That sounded better, and so his brain settles on that dreamily as she clings to his neck, especially as her sweet cheek pressed up against him and she _whispered sweet things_ into his garments. His own arms slipped gently around her in exchange, providing a light, affectionate squeeze. She flits away as soon as she'd come soon enough, and a part of Vince breaks just a little. Off she hurries, back to the cretin lurking within. She obviously wants, and deserves, something so much more.

_If she was going to be a prostitute, he might as well keep her safe as a royal courtesan. Right? It was the only way in which it might be possible to have her._

Vaguely, pleasantly, Vince raised a delicate hand to Lydia in farewell as she withdrew from his embrace and unlatched the gate. He bitterly desired her warmth again immediately, and after watching her pretty figure glide back down the path and into the lighthouse in that beautiful dress with gifted shoes, her ever-long black hair flowing behind her, he sighs.

Turning, slowly raising himself back into the carriage, he murmurs softly to himself, "Now cracks a noble heart…"


	20. The Gift

_Authors' Note: _It has come to our attention that some people may think that we're godmoding from an outside perspective. Please rest assured that any time either of us controls the other person's character in our writings, it's because we have given explicit consent beforehand. We've been roleplaying for a while now and trust each other's character decisions. There's nothing nonconsensual going on here, except of course in the realm of fiction.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_What to wear, what to wear…_ Valentine's Day had finally arrived. It fell on a Friday, coincidentally the same day Lydia and Betelgeuse had agreed on reuniting. She had no doubt that he was _around—_ spying, using whatever supernatural means he already had to check in on her whenever the mood struck. But he was a good, patient husband and allowed her to carry out her weekdays at school and with the Maitlands unencumbered by his company.

She was already at the lighthouse, deferring to search for an outfit there. Red seemed the obvious choice given the spirit of the holiday, but something kept drawing her toward the white dresses. Lydia couldn't remember ever having worn white, even when she was a small child and what she wore wasn't necessarily up to her. Curiously, she picked through the selection until finding one that called to her. It was vintage in style, with laces that ran up the back and layered, bouncing skirts that were longer in the front and back than they were on the sides. The sleeves were long, slipping off her shoulders and bellowing out at the elbows, a neat lace trim feathering the hems.

It fell lightly and easily over her body, conforming perfectly to her shape the way everything Ginger made for her had. The stark white cotton was only just a few shades lighter than her own skin. She almost donned her horns before deciding she wanted just a little more time to talk with her husband before he jumped her bones. Instead, she tied a pretty red ribbon into a tidy bow above her head. This kind of look was a bit more cutesy than Lydia would usually go for, but it was _Valentine's Day_ and she was in a _mood_. To offset the sugary sweetness of her attire, her favorite pair of clunky black combat boots were left on her feet, adequately providing the gothic edge she wanted.

Miraculously, Betelgeuse hadn't come to call for her yet. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he was also unaware of Valentine's Day and wouldn't have any romantic offerings for her, but Lydia didn't mind. Crimson gift box in hand wrapped up with a pretty black and white ribbon that Lydia procured specifically for this, she abandoned the closet in search of her husband.

"Betelgeuse?" She called from the top landing of the circular staircase, voice resonating through the entire house. "Are you home?" Silence. Disappointment started to intrude in on her excitement, a frown turning her painted red lips. Didn't he hear her?_ "I missed you."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Mostly, Betelgeuse loved watching Lydia sleep. He also liked listening to her sing in the shower, so he'd lurk during those times. Sometimes he'd prank the Maitlands in tiny micro-pranks that could be easily passed off as something else while she was at school because they were _just awful_ and deserved it. Nevertheless, he stuck by his word and mainly on the whole left all of them be during the week. Unfortunately, this meant a _severe amount of build up_ for Lydia's return, like a drain clogged with all the nasty detritus that was Betelgeuse's bad behavior.

Today was no exception. He had been waiting to pounce since Monday, having stupidly missed her coming and going earlier in the week. She had even come to him wrapped up in a white dress with a pretty red bow for the occasion, like a sweet little breather present. He couldn't believe his luck as Lydia hung over the edge of the large circular staircase to look for him. Oh he missed her alright, and he was going to show it in the most ghoulish way he knew how, of course.

A thick rope of snake-like coil sweeps Lydia off her feet from behind before she can react- throwing her right into the open center of the stairs. Betelgeuse lets her plummet and free-fall but controls the decent specifically to make sure she doesn't flail or alter course and hit anything she isn't supposed to. Just a straight death-drop right through the center with nothing to stop her or slow her down. For all intents and purposes for Lydia, this is most likely _terrifying_ – that is, right until she almost hits the concrete bottom and Betelgeuse is suddenly there to _catch her_. He does so effortlessly, as if she didn't just come hurtling from many floors above him, and holding her bridal-style he grins dirty teeth _hugely_ into her shell-shocked expression.

"_I missed ya too babe." _He winks at her, _ever so pleased with himself_, cigarette dangling impishly from the corner of his lips. Then, he adds, with delighted mock-surprise, "Well hey, you look like you've seen a ghost!"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia didn't see what caused her descent. She didn't see her grinning husband materialize on the ground below, arms open, waiting to catch her. All she was aware of was that she was suddenly falling, the stained glass ceiling growing further and further away as she ripped through the air. A million questions filtered through her head all at once. _Will I become a ghost? Would I stay here or go somewhere else altogether? Will my soul expel from my body and look at its mangled shell down below, or will my obliterated corpse reanimate instead? Will the watch still work? Is this going to hurt?_ All through the plunge, she hugged the gift box close to her chest protectively, a primal shriek she wasn't cognizant she was responsible for ringing through her ears.

Then, it was over. Betelgeuse was grinning down at his shocked wife cushioned safely in his arms, quite proud of himself. In an instant, Lydia knew exactly what had just happened and her expression said as much. Jaw dropping, eyes alight with fire and cheeks still flushed from her panicked screaming, she laid into him.

"Jerk!" She cried, beating at his chest with all of her unimpressive might, kicking, squirming ineffectually to be let down. "Why do you have to be so _mean_ all the fucking time!"

Eventually, her adorable brawling yielded results and she was able to wriggle out of her captor's arms. Pouting severely, still trembling uncontrollably from her perceived near-death experience, she roughly shoved the little velvet box in his direction, practically hitting him with it.

"There," she spat, before crossing her arms in a self-hug and putting herself out of arms reach of him. Maybe she was being dramatic, but _he started it._ "Happy Valentine's Day."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The expression Lydia wore, that shock turned into red hot rage only makes the ghost laugh, and then laugh harder intermixed with painful exclamations as she beat on him. He deserved it, absolutely, his laughing eventually turning to wheezing coughs, the loss of breath permitting Lydia to escape as he hunched over in recovery. Eventually, he stretched back up, taking a long inhale on his cigarette, and that seems to resolve the fit.

It's then that Lydia shoves a box into his grimy, mottled hands. "Happy wha—?" he replies in confusion, nose wrinkling in perplexed curiosity. "Oh! Uh, uh, happy V-Day to you too, babes?"

_Oh fuck. Why is it always something he's clueless about?! It's V-Day? Shit, fuck, girls love Valentine's Day! FUCK. While Lydia was busy working all week, he'd been drinking and fighting and humping his own hand waiting for her to come back – NOW this? Come ON!_

"Thanks," he wriggles the little package, looking properly vaguely ashamed of himself, "C'mon Lyds…" he closes in on her even as she keeps away from him, "You know I wouldn'ta let nothin' _happen_ to ya, was just havin' a little fun — what's the fun in surprisin' you without any _surprise?_ Yer hard to scare, I gotta get creative."

His dirty yellowed fingernails are already plying into the velvet box, awkwardly reaching out and trying to tug Lydia's angry, reluctant body against him even as she sulks and is avoidant of the affection. Resistance to his affections has never stopped him (unless physical retaliation is involved) and this is no exception. No one's gotten him any sort of gift in millennia for any reason, and his interest is highly piqued. "Whatja get me? I dunno if it can top that pretty white dress with that sexy red bow, babes, seein' you after a week is the best present a dead guy can ask for."

_Now you have to think of something to get HER that isn't just your dick in a box, buddy—_

Filthy digits finally manage to pry the box open as he continues to wrestle his reluctant wife even as she elbows him in the stomach - he releases her unceremoniously in surprise at the contents of the gift, those jade eyes alighting on the delicate timepiece. Wide, wild eyes flit over to a still annoyed Lydia. He knows this is Neitherworld make - "_Woah_. Lyds…how…did you get _one of these…_? …and…when….? And… babes, I don't deserve this—"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

His sweet talk and compliments endeared her to him beautifully, the way they always did. Eventually, Lydia allowed herself to be drawn to his side, still pouting somewhat, but considerably less shaky now that she'd had time to process. "I guess it was _kind of fun,"_ she conceded in regards to her trip down the stairs, watching with interest as he opened his gift. He really couldn't be blamed. She was asking for it, leaning so far over the banister like that.

His reaction was exactly what she was hoping for. Both his jaw and grip on her shoulder went slack, pupils fluctuating back and forth between thin reptilian slivers and dilated black pits as he gazed upon the watch. When he didn't immediately put it on, Lydia took the initiative to do it for him. She banded it around the empty spot where the watch she wore used to live before he gifted it to her.

"I think you deserve it," she countered non-argumentatively, admiring how her gift looked on his arm. It was definitely flashier than any of the other watches he wore, but not so much as to look wrong on him. Betelgeuse could feel an unnatural warmth emanating from it, as though his wife's living hand were grasping his wrist and not a hunk of precious metal.

"_Don't worry about how I got it, it doesn't matter._ I don't know how to make it work, but you should be able to see me through this—" she tapped the center stone, so prettily engraved with a quote that promised her eternal devotion, "— whenever you want. I know you already spy on me… I just… I don't want you to worry so much, Beej. I want you to be happy. Relax and know that I'm okay. This way, you can… I don't know, go to bars or whatever and still be able to check in on me without having to stop whatever you're doing. Focus on yourself."

The end of her speech was punctuated with a sweet, soft kiss to his cheek. "I love you. It's okay if you don't have anything for me, I know time is weird on this side— _and I don't think anyone here even celebrates Valentine's Day."_ She was rambling now, made nervous by his silence. "Do you like it? You don't have to wear it if you don't want, I won't be insulted. I just thought— nothing in the living world seemed _good enough…_ and… I don't know…"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

It was getting easier for Lydia to forgive his bad behavior. If he noticed it, Betelgeuse didn't mention it – primarily because it let him get away with _anything_ and his version of _playful_ is not anyone else's. Lydia is pretty when she screams and writhes, and the look she gave him – a mixture of horror and disgust – when they first laid eyes on each other was a look permanently imprinted into his mind. Her negative reactions to him stirred up something primal, something _predatory_ within the poltergeist…he just couldn't help but mess with her.

Lydia has the upper hand…er, wrist, in the end though with this extravagant piece of clockwork. He lets her secure it to his wrist in a state of earnest overwhelm – and he clasps his other hand over it gently once he feels the peculiar temperature of it. It was indeed _warm_ as if it were a living thing itself. Squinting, he suddenly seemed to check into what she was saying, focus shifting.

_Don't worry about how I got it. It doesn't matter._

Did she steal it? No, that seems thoroughly unlike her. This is also forgotten with what she says next – that she is very much _encouraging_ him to spy on her _more directly_. "Oh uh," he mutters, looking vaguely embarrassed, not that he's been caught but because her reasons for him watching her are quite different from what she describes, "I…I mean I worry aboutcha, sure, but ….mainly I watch you 'cause I _like lookin' atcha_, babes. From every angle. So …I'll treasure this, y'know?" he pats it, affectionately.

This thing was in actuality veritably priceless. The actual cost of it would have been astronomical by Neitherworld standards, and as she kisses him on the cheek and acknowledges he may not have something for her he looks vaguely relieved. "I …I love it, babes. Truly. Yer too good to me."

A list was forming. A list of who could have _possibly_ funded this. It wasn't Lydia. It wasn't Ginger or Jacques unless those deadbeats had been holding out on him for years. Who else did they know? She couldn't have contacted the Monster Across the Street, she didn't even know him. Not the Dante's Girls, they were stingier than anybody. This was going to take some trickery, getting the information out of her.

Betelgeuse sweeps Lydia into a sudden, deep, enthusiastic kiss. "I'll find somethin' to getcha babes. I think I promised you a one on one with Vincent Price, didn't I? In the meantime though, you're gonna have to _spill some beans—"_

His claws gently dance up under her pretty little armpits. Her remark about going to bars suddenly registers, and as he tickles his adoring wife he growls, not unpleasantly, "—I can't get into any bars, thanks to your little _horned friends_, y'know. The Dante's girls work for all my favorite ones n' they've made some sorta satan pact with you not to let me in for some reason!" he tickles harder, "Did they have somethin' to do with this little _purchase_ of yers…? You give them somethin' in _exchange_ baby?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Vincent Price!? Really!? Oh, can we go today, please, please, please—" Lydia only had seconds to fangirl over the iconic dead star before her husband began subjecting her to tickle torture in exchange for _information_. "Stop!" She begged fruitlessly as he laid into her, growling out accusatory questions one right after the other. When she tried to run, he banded an arm around her middle to keep her plastered to his chest. The other traveled all up and down her side, merciless claws tickling and poking and prodding. Fighting was useless too, but that knowledge didn't stop Lydia from slapping, kicking, and beating at him weakly until he eventually just heaved her off her feet to take away her equilibrium.

"Noooooo! I— won't— tell you—! It's— irr—elevant! You don't— need— to know!" She shrieked and laughed brokenly, exerting every ounce of physical strength she had in her efforts at escape. As strong as her resolve was, his was stronger. She held out for an impressive amount of time, but once it felt as though her bladder might burst— _which would have been embarrassing beyond words—_ she was ready to accept defeat.

"_DONNY!"_ She finally called out, putting an end to her gentle suffering. Worn out, sweating and flushed, she slumped over her husband's arm like a used towel and panted out the rest of the information he wanted to keep him from starting up again. "Donny… gave me the money… but I didn't end up needing it… because… of the Prince… so I gave it away…" Annoyed that she had been driven to giving away her sources via torture, she found the strength needed to kick him once more— gently, in the shin from her hoisted up position. "Happy?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

She's a feisty little fighter, Lydia is – Betelgeuse happily continues to torture her, picking her right off the ground to destabilize her ability to beat at him, getting nailed by her bony shins and knees and elbows but remaining steadfast in his efforts. Lydia was _stubborn_, but he kept at it wildly, oofing and grunting with each of her painful little hits, merciless until she gasped for air and yelled Donny's name as her source.

He releases her from her torture immediately but keeps her aloft on his arm as she melts over it, _further explaining_ about her encounter with the Prince. Prince Vince? The Prince of the entire fucking Neitherworld? Donny gave her money? In exchange for _what?_

"No," comes the gruff reply, spitting a bit as she manages to pop him in the shin again, "What do you mean got money from Donny? He doesn't just give away money Lyds, I know the guy. What'd he have you do, _exactly…_?"

She had been up to some serious trouble. Maybe his brother wasn't wrong about her after all – fortunately, she had just given him the tools to keep a better eye on her. "What do ya mean by _because of the Prince?_ Was he visiting Donny? …no, that's not right, he hates Donny. An' me. Does he know you're married t'me? You have some explain' to do, you sneaky, beautiful brat."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"It's not _sneaking_ if it's supposed to be a _surprise_, you bully," Lydia countered with lackluster passion, all the fight having been tickled out of her. Squirming once more, she was finally allowed back down to her feet with the expectation that she would be a good girl and explain herself to her miffed husband.

"_Don't be mad," _she requested first, avoiding eye contact and scuffing her boots on the cobblestone in discomfort. While what she and Donny had done was on the face of it innocent, Lydia couldn't deny that the experience left her feeling _dirty_ and _used_. "He was just doing me a favor. I'm the one who went looking for him, and only because Jacques and Ginger couldn't help me out. He… uhm… He paid me to… to _sing a song_ for him."

Lydia found it unwise to mention the skin-tight cocktail dress he insisted upon her wearing, or that he touched her long enough to pick her up and place her on his piano, or how horrifically beautiful they sounded together when his voice joined in on the last stanza. Betelgeuse didn't need to know these things. It wouldn't be right to let Donny take the fallout when the entire fiasco was Lydia's idea. However, there was no way to explain the Prince's involvement without being up front with at least some of Donny's wrongdoings.

"We went to his apartment, and after paying me he kicked me out." Here, she frowned severely, brows furrowed with hurt, unable to understand why Donny would treat her so callously. "I didn't know where I was, and I was _upset_, and if Vince hadn't come along I probably would have ended up calling you and ruining the surprise. He was really nice to me, and his horses were cute. I don't know if he knows you're my husband. I couldn't say your name or you would've heard. I mean, I didn't keep it a secret that I'm married if that's what you're asking. He even helped me pick out the watch. The clerk wouldn't take any of my money because he was with me. I think he was _scared_ of Vince? Seems silly to me, Vince is a sweetheart."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse's face goes through a number of different expressions, including one that crumples into a cringe as Lydia describes what Donny had her do…and the fact that he kicked her out afterward so abruptly. He knows why. His brother probably experienced _frisson_ from the sound of her voice, since Donny experiences melolagnia; sexual arousal due to music. He essentially used his wife for a bit of a sexual fling without her knowledge, _the sneaky, gross asshole._ A second thought pops into his mind, and that is _Lydia has never sung HIM a song and he's a bigger pervert than his fuckin' brother, and he DESERVES it more seeing as she's his WIFE. Also, Donny is going to eat dirt for that shitty trick… even if Lydia was the one to initiate._

A third thought occurs to the ghoul, and that is, _Donny dumped her in the middle of the Neitherworld without an escort._ So he used her like a whore. Probably a _cheap whore._ By that action, apparently, he had dumped her directly into the arms of His Lowness, whom Lydia now seems to be on a _first name basis with. FUCK._

"Babe," the ghoul mutters, lighting a cigarette immediately upon learning of all her adventures, "It's a good thing you got me this watch, firstly, I don't think I coulda asked for a more perfect gift 'tween you and I after hearin' all that. Secondarily," he sighs, unable to even begin to address the rest of the full spectrum of shit she'd just scooped into his life with the Prince - Vince is a _sweetheart_ is he?! "I'll check with Vincent Price – he's a busy man, but he owes me. Before we get t'all that though…"

His hands suddenly find their way to her sides, sliding over the fabric of her dress. Her intentions were so purely good, he couldn't fault her – she had _tried_ to get him a gift. It wasn't _her fault_ the Neitherworld wasn't full of anything but give and take. However, it was _absolutely time to remind her who was numero uno in her life._ Reclaim his territory and keep her on her toes. And, y'know, engage in a little physicality, of course, "…this dress is a pretty, pretty choice. All that white fabric…almost like you're a virgin babe."

He kisses Lydia then, long and hard and deep, hungry as ever for her, drawing her fully into his arms. His greasy fingers tangle into her hair, and for a moment, he is lost in her as much as he wants her to be lost within him.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Just as quickly as the cigarette was lit it was gone, tossed away into the ether in favor of refamiliarizing himself with the contours of her body. Pale, shapely legs wrapped in black fishnet up to the thigh snaked around his waist as he drew her up, bulky black boots digging into his lower back to give her purchase in returning his affections. He was always so _intense_. Lydia liked to think she was getting better at matching him, despite his insistence that she kept up well enough.

A calloused, clawed hand eventually found its way to his favorite place to grab. It kneaded the soft, cushiony globes of her buttocks over the top of the red silk panties she wore, the ones that oh-so-prettily matched the ribbon in her hair. The other tangled in her hair, anchoring her in place to accept his dizzying affections. The taste of hard liquor was a bit stronger today than it usually was, signifying that he had likely been drinking moments prior to her arrival— but he was dead, and Lydia wasn't going to judge.

The hand in her hair tugged, demanding access to her neck, and she gave it, inadvertently freeing her bitten, ruddy lips to address his comments on her outfit.

"I've never celebrated Valentine's Day before," she confessed in a hush once he stopped ravaging her mouth, instead sucking and biting at her bare, unblemished throat. It was in need of rebranding after an entire week sans abuse. Delicate, breathy hums and moans played through the foyer for him, echoing almost as pleasantly as her earlier death-shriek. "And I've never worn white before either, that I can remember. _Except for your shirt._ It seemed appropriate."

His groin was already pushing against her, into her, rubbing, pantomiming fucking. The more worked up he got, the tighter she was forced to hold on, clinging her legs rigidly around him and grasping his striped jacket for purchase. With how fiercely he was feeling her up, it was a wonder he didn't just bend her over the nearby staircase or haul her up against the stone walls and have his way. Instead, Lydia felt her stomach drop out as though she were ascending in an elevator. Finding the good sense to open her eyes in wake of the raw sensations he was dealing out, she saw that they were zooming up the center of the circular staircase— _flying—_ right back the way she had come. He didn't release her to the subjugation of gravity until she was on her back on their bed and he was on top of her, taking advantage of the momentum this gave him to grind against her more fiercely.

"_Beej,"_ she whined, restless, _more than ready_ to skip any foreplay and get right to the main act. _"Please,"_ she begged with pitiful, wanton desire, playing on his weaknesses, "please give it to me. I _need_ it."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse was one of those men that, no matter how much sex they got, they were always _raring to go_ for even more of it. It was practically a death-long pursuit of his; women were a gift in this hellscape of non-existence, and Lydia was far beyond anything he'd ever met in the realm of women. She could do anything at all and it would make his whole body respond to her without her even _trying_ – in fact, there had been times where she hadn't been trying at all and bore the brunt of his response to perceived mixed signals.

In this case, however, there was nothing mixed. She arched for him, giving him free access to whatever part of her he wished, perfectly giving over full control into his lustful and sloppy grabbing, biting and sucking. It took him a moment to respond to her remark regarding the occasion as he was busy feeling her up, mouth filled with the soft skin of her nape. Eventually, he mutters breathily into it, "Neither have I, but 's goin' _great_ for me so far, I gotta tell ya. I could get used to this." A twisted little smile appeared on his lips against Lydia's neck as she remarks about the white of her outfit. "I like this theme. I get to pop yer cherry for everything you haven't celebrated? Just wait till I introduce y'ta all the _Neitherworld_ holidays…" in remembering that white shirt and that night she refers to, he grunts hotly, "_Babe_, that first time … I got t'touch you, wearin' that… _hhhhhrhh…_" his hand fists tighter in her hair as he hisses the last, his hips starting to work against her as if they were already in the middle of it.

Upstairs needed to happen. _Now_.

They were up in Lydia's gilded cage as fast as he could get her there, practically, forcing her to cling to him tightly as he chose the _flying_ route versus anything else. Betelgeuse was very much like the red giant that was his namesake – he burned hot and fast, barely needing a hello to get going and this was no exception. Beyond it being Valentine's day, he hadn't gotten to slake his lust with the sweet, nubile teenager for a full week which was veritably a crime in his book (and not the fun kind, either). They hit the mattress with a soft _whumph_, his hips immediately pushing against Lydia's, his trapped arousal rubbing against her heatedly.

As she begs him, perfectly as heated and needful as he is, he nearly chokes – nothing in the seven hells would ever come between him and anything Lydia begged him for.

_"Fuck Lyds,"_ he snarls, her voice going straight to his aching cock. "I'm gonna blow early if you keep that up, baby," he huffs, wrestling his fly open and tugging the insistent arousal from within. He pulls back just enough to hook his claws up under her dress and into her undies, pulling them down to her knees. He makes a _guttural_ noise at their appearance, the red color that matches her pretty little bow, clearly they have their intended effect. He finally yanks them all the way off her pretty petite ankles, nuzzling them briefly against his stubble to take in her scent. "I'm gonna give it to ya… _fuck_ I'm gonna give it to ya…"

No foreplay to be had for this, indeed. Betelgeuse sweeps in like a force of nature, pushing up Lydia's dress, rutting himself deep into her with a hot groan. His pace is quick and rough, so eager to pump into that living, sweet, young body of hers unrepentantly. His hands aren't at her hips but instead pushed up under her dress, grasping at her breasts, using them for leverage as his hips thrust home in a rapid patter, the air filled with his satisfied moans.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

The hazy memory of the night he _took her for his own_ in the basement den of the Maitlands' home gave Lydia just as much of a physical reaction as it appeared her husband was having. She whimpered and pled for him, overcome with an all-consuming need that only he could satisfy. Soon, but clearly not _soon enough_ for either of them, she got what she wanted and he was _taking_ her again. The flimsy layered skirts of her dress were flipped up, silk panties were snatched down her legs and huffed against his face before being discarded to places unknown, then he was fucking her. Hard, and fast, and rough, the heavy weight of his hips swinging against her mercilessly in his single-minded efforts.

The initial intrusion made her gasp and cry out with the stinging delicious stretch of their joining that she'd come too long for. It was always like this when he didn't dedicate time to preparing her, especially when so much time had passed since they last indulged their carnal desires. As if aware of her masochistic tendencies— or perhaps too selfish to care one way or the other— Betelgeuse offered no repose. There was no breaking or easing into it, no seconds spared to allow her sweet, tight clenching muscles to adjust to him. Like a feral animal caught in some sort of trap, he snapped, growled, and snarled, wild jade eyes flashing down at her while he pounded her into their marriage bed.

Talons tore down the front of her dress carelessly, freeing her breasts to his large, greedy hands. This wasn't the first time he had destroyed her clothing in pursuit of her. Lydia didn't mind. When she looked later, she would find this very dress hanging prim and spotless in the exact spot she found it, as though it had never even been worn. He was too busy squeezing her tits right up to the threshold of pain to keep her properly pinned in place for his rough fucking, so she took the initiative to do it herself. Between savage thrusts, she managed to hook one creamy leg up over his shoulder, the other twining round his hip.

Black-painted nails dug into the crimson satin above her head, giving extra security to his ferocity. Were it not for her meager attempts at maintaining stability, she would have slid further and further up the slick sheets every time he threw his hips against hers. He would never have allowed her to fall off the bed, of course, but Lydia was in no mood to stop for any reason, much less something as trivial as readjusting. Betelgeuse seemed to see through his cloud of lust long enough to notice her trouble and relieved one hand of breast-groping duty in order to hunch over and plant his fist deep in the mattress above her shoulder. His rhythm was every bit as brutal as before with the change, but _deeper_ now, drawing an additional facet of ache to Lydia's melodious cries.

Betelgeuse was hitting something that made her vision go white with each hungry lunge. Every time that fat, violating cock forced its way back inside, she _sang_— tragic, sensual arias meant only for him, the kind of songs Donny couldn't hope to inspire even in his wildest daydreams.

"I'm gonna cum," she gasped desperately, her own wild gaze pleading up at him, begging him to keep fucking her _just. Like. That._ A tiny, sweat-dampened fist grasped his tie— _he was still mostly dressed—_ and pulled down to force his attention. _"I'm gonna cum," _she repeated, just as frantic as before as if she feared he hadn't heard her. "Kiss me," she requested, "please, kiss—"

She didn't have to ask twice. He bore down, sliding his snake-like tongue past her lips and teeth without any preamble. It was enough. The taste of him alone pushed her over the edge. At her insistence, he swallowed this verse of the song, letting it vibrate into his mouth while he rode out his wife's orgasm for all it was worth.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse could live in a world where Lydia begged him like _that_ twenty-four seven and never get bored. Her wild pleading cries as he brought her to the edge wiped his brain of reason, of thought, of anything but _this_. All he wanted to do was bring her pleasure like this always, with her clinging to his tie as her body shudders around him, warm and succulent and _oh so ready._ He grunts rambling heated encouragement while he can, till she begs for that kiss.

As his tongue tangles with hers at a request he hastily fulfilled, she is rapidly brought to her peak for him. Her wailing moan of climax is swallowed into his mouth and the intensity of it all brings about his first orgasm of the evening as he rides Lydia's out with heated fervor. He buries into her with a series of heated muffled, messy grunts as if taken by surprise by it, all of his muscles tensing and arching, and the affair lasts a few beats before he pulls back to huff against Lydia's soft lips. "S…shit, didn't realize that one was comin' so fast…"

He pulls sloppily from her in an oozy bout of cum after staying inside for a few moments longer, gently permitting her to re-position herself. He doesn't relinquish Lydia entirely though, instead deigning to spoon against her back and nuzzle up into her thick hair, hands busily pulling off his own clothes in pieces and simply disappearing others until all he's left in is a stained wife-beater and nothing else. She smells like sweet, sweaty, flowery heaven, and he lets go a low, pleasant growl into her shoulder.

"'M not done," he warns, early, the sensation of his thick cock prodding at her thigh is indicative that he very much is not. But it seems, first, he just wants to lie with Lydia, _caress her,_ feel that soft warm smooth skin under his rough palms, peculiarly tenderly and affectionately. "Mmm, I may not be a Prince babes, but I don't think a guy gifted with a title and a funny hat can do to ya what I can."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Still dizzy from the comedown, Lydia clumsily followed his lead and pulled the ravaged white dress up over her head to fling across the room, leaving her in nothing but the thigh-high fishnets and pretty red bow. That _he wasn't done yet_ was hardly a surprise. It was Valentine's Day, after all, and he sounded a tad disappointed with the swiftness of the encounter. Whether this was the case, Lydia couldn't speak for anyone but herself and she was _satisfied_. In a weakened, blissful haze, she allowed herself to be snuggled into his heavy embrace, shifting her legs to trap his sopping arousal between her buttery soft thighs when it came poking. The way he was holding her, his wrist was right in front of her face, so Lydia played with his watches idly, paying special attention to the one she gave him.

She didn't feel any _less_ without that drop of soul the watchmaker had taken. If anything, she drew security from the fact that Betelgeuse owned it now. If she knew him, he would guard it covetously, like a junkyard dog would his favorite hunk of scrap.

"I think it looks good on you," she complimented before gently kissing the bare piece of skin between his watches, then his palm, then the pad of his thumb. Affection given, she went limp and pliant, freeing his hand to join its twin in petting her. Almost immediately, it came to grasp her tit and his hips shuffled just so behind her, sliding and stimulating the stiff, wet cock stuffed between her thighs. She was so caught up in savoring the feel of those large, toughened hands roving over her so sweetly and lovingly, she almost didn't register his growling comments about _the Prince._ Why was he mentioning Vince _now?_ Lydia didn't want the kind, scrawny monarch anywhere near her sex life.

"Beej," she grinned, turning her head just enough to squint at him over her shoulder, clearly amused, "are you _jealous?"_ His mouth quirked in a way that answered that question, and Lydia worked hard to stifle her giggles. "Don't be _silly_. First of all, Vince isn't even interested in me like that. He was just being nice. Second of all, he's way too skinny." Here, she faced her front back forward and relaxed back into his embrace properly, enjoying the feel of his firm, round gut pressing into her back. "Nowhere near as handsome as you. Or as cool as you. Or as funny. You could take him in a fight— _please don't fight him,"_ she added the disclaimer quickly, not wishing Betelgeuse to take her stroking of his ego as an invitation of sorts.

"Besides, why would I want a Prince when I already have a _King—_ 'King Daddy Betelgeuse', remember?" She mocked lightheartedly, laying it on thick. It was astounding to her that such an enormous, overly inflated ego would also be so comedically _fragile_. How cute.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The affection Lydia bestowed to his broad palm was met with a contented sort of growl. In exchange, he did indeed molest the soft, sweet round flesh of her breast once it was freed. "I like it," he grumbles back into her shoulder. He did. He also liked _this_. Nothing at all got him stimulated quite like the unmarred, warm, expanses of her flesh, and her permission for him to indulge was delicious. She looked good, too, in nothing but fishnets and a bow – the visual of it made the dick he was currently frotting between her delectable thighs twitch.

His gut, pressed firmly to her back, shakes with the hard snort he exchanges to her in her query – and he's unable to stop the expression on his face, his lips quirking just so to give him away. As she reassured him, his squeezing intensified briefly, before his arms enveloped her in a firm sort of possessive hug. She was so small he could wrap his arms around her with room to spare as she gently melted back against him. "I might fight 'em," he teases her, amusedly, "I don't like it when skinny, uninteresting royal punks who think they _own everything_ come sniffin' 'round my woman when she's _unattended_."

At her last reassurance, he chuckles into Lydia's supple neck breathily. She always seemed to know what to say to soothe him, it seemed, and it helped that she had his cock thoroughly trapped between her creamy thighs.

"_Jeeeeez_ Lyds, I didn't mean all _that_. I thought you'd forget it…" it seems she hadn't. "…I ain't no real King, monarchy is for mummies. But I am yer daddy." With that, his cock withdrew from the lovely delicate folds of her thighs and ruts itself between the cheeks of her soft ass instead, rudely. He strokes it with gentle thrusts there, grunting into Lydia's shoulders. "The white dress reminded me…you look like a _virgin_," he mutters, "You still got one place I haven't filled with this…" For emphasis, he nudges the head of his cock up against her. "And a big part of me _wants it,_ babe…"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia flushed terribly at his reiteration that he was her _Daddy_, never mind how often he liked to remind her of this. She knew how much he hated Adam and her father. This was something that _should_ have disturbed or offended her. Instead, his self-given title gave her a forbidden thrill. Tingles of excitement ran up her spine, secret muscles inside of her panged anew with want, and she nuzzled her cheek against the bicep serving as her pillow, liquefying into the squeezing hug.

Then, he did something that titillated her inner deviant even further. With a subtle shift, his heavy arousal was nestled nice and cozy between her ass cheeks; sliding, rutting, borderline using her as a masturbation device. He growled his want to her in that gritty, throaty way that left no doubt as to the validity of his hunger, and Lydia stumbled over answering him.

"_Oh," _she breathed simply when his fat head nudged firmly at her forbidden entrance, tensing in surprise and fear at the mere prospect of his suggestion. _It wouldn't fit. It couldn't fit. There was no way. It would be awful. He wouldn't be gentle. _**This was a bad idea.** "O-okay," she stuttered her acquiescence, unable to deny him despite the contrary body language she was exhibiting. "You can, uhm… _do that…_ just… just don't…" Her pulse fluttered and she swallowed in an effort to lubricate her suddenly dry throat. _"Will it hurt?"_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Lydia makes him _wild_ when she's nervous. Betelgeuse can feel her tense up against him as she jumbles out rushed, hushed question to him, stammering. She was _worried_. His cock throbs at this, and his stubbled cheek draws up and down the back of her head and ear, inhaling the scent of her thick, luxurious mane. "Don't worry baby…" he cajoles her slimily, "…contrary t'popular belief, chicks _loooove_ anal."

This, obviously, was a bald-faced lie, but Betelgeuse was willing to push the sell. "I'll take it nice n' easy," he seems to promise, but Lydia has no reason whatsoever to trust him on this. What Lydia does get to hear, however, is the ghoul sucking in a long, low _ssnnnrrrghhh_ and then spitting into his hand grossly, slapping crude strokes over his already slick cock. Like the disgusting creature he is, soon enough his slimy head is prodding at her again, insistent.

"Y'just gotta relax…" he instructs, one leg hiking up somewhat for leverage before rudely pushing forward. Her tiny, delectable pucker is intruded within abruptly, his thick, blunt cockhead slowly working her open. The effect is immediate on Betelgeuse, it seems – the gritty, throaty moaning growl he emits is _clearly_ one of total and utter pleasure on _his_ end of things. And it was – she felt _heavenly…_ the slimy girth of his cock easing his way inwards slowly, thrusting, stretching. "…._f-f…fucking hell_ Lyds…"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Ah!" The sharp, pained cry that was expelled upon his blunt penetration couldn't be helped. _Relax?!_ How was she supposed to _relax?!_ This was _unnatural_. He wasn't supposed to go _in there_, and her body was letting her know in no uncertain terms. Suddenly, Miss Shannon's occasional holier-than-thou speeches about the evils of sodomy seemed marginally less homophobic. It seemed much more likely that the crotchety educator had at one point or another been hoodwinked into a position similar to this and lived to _regret it._

Lydia was in no way remorseful of her decision to let her husband have his way. _Anything_, she reminded herself as he shimmied and grunted and cursed, worming his way somewhere he didn't belong and hissing the obvious pleasure it gave him down her neck. She couldn't stop shaking, couldn't _relax_ for him, no matter how hard she tried. Each thrust— gentle and shallow as they truly were— made her gasp, cringe, and cry out. Trembling, digging her nails into the arm that moments before was on the receiving end of her kisses, Lydia resolved to make a more serious attempt at calming her distressed, strung taut muscles.

She took deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth, and did her best to concentrate on _anything_ but what was happening down below. _This was okay. She was okay._ What was a little pain in the grand scheme of things? This was the price of his happiness— something that was of utmost importance to Lydia— and as usual, she was willing to pay. Intimately familiar with the substantial length and girth of his cock by now, she knew there couldn't have been much more left to go. Abruptly, as if having grown impatient with the slow, steady rhythm he had stuck to in order to sink deeper into her _hellishly tight_ anal passage, he surged forward to bury the last inch or so, until wiry, moss-ridden pubic hair kissed her velvety ass cheeks.

"Oh, Beej," she choked on her anguish, breathing exercises forgotten. "It hurts— _ah, nnngh—_ it _hurts!"_ Desperate for whatever comfort he could provide, she buried her face into his bicep, reflexive tears falling on the frigid flesh there. "I need— I need, I don't know—," she rambled, barely concealing the rush of hysteria threatening to overtake her, "— _magic_, or _something. Help me."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

_Women_. Always so damn dramatic when you do something as simple as shoving your dick in their ass. At least he _warned her first,_ didn't he? Jeez. He'd feel worse about it if her ass wasn't so heavenly divine, too, perfect in every way as it clenched, fluttered and squeezed him deliciously in resistance.

Once he was fully seated within her, the ghoul let go a satisfied, leisurely sighing groan. She had fought him deliciously the whole way in, and now she was clinging to him, crying. The living were so fragile, weren't they? "Shh," he chuckled, amused at her hysterical pleading, "It's just my dick. Chill out, babes."

He does, however, give her at least a modicum of relief with a tiny stroke of juice as per her request. Just enough to take the edge off in order for him to proceed without her resisting him too badly. "You'll learn to like it, it just takes a minute – just…y'know. Do that thing you breathers do. Breathe. You gotta relax. It'll only feel worse if y'don't."

The latter is said in panting breaths, but matter-of-fact. Most women hadn't let him get this far, but Lydia had, so he was willing to be patient…enough. He desperately, maniacally wanted to thrust, but he knew at least to give her a moment before doing so. His cock, in the meantime, surged another gooey pulse of pre within her, as if demanding relief.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Whatever he did, it was enough. It wasn't the supernatural onslaught of concentrated pleasure he released on her the night Lydia whooped them all at Monopoly, but it was in the same arena. Artificial heat pooled in her belly before trickling outward, up her spine and down her legs, easing all tension away. The ache of losing her anal virginity wasn't completely banished, not totally, but it was bearable. Now, she could focus on breathing again— _just like he told her to do—_ and the terribly familiar— _completely foreign—_ sensation of that thick cylinder of flesh fucking deep into her most secret, most taboo place.

Betelgeuse wasted no time in taking advantage of her newfound pliancy. Dedicated, he worked up to a slow, intense rhythm that had her shaking for entirely different reasons. Subtly, taking his sweet, sweet time with it, the pace quickened and grimy teeth sunk into the nape of her neck in time with a particularly heated thrust. Lydia's deep, even breaths hitched, abandoned to make way for a decidedly wanton moan.

Oh! _Oh_. So _this_ is what he was talking about. This wasn't _that_ bad. Nerves that had never before been stimulated were abuzz with a raw, aching sort of pleasure. The feeling was comparable to when he was rough with her when they were having traditional sex, but he was gentle and exceedingly patient here, catering to his poor inexperienced wife and her _delicate_ sensibilities.

"Beej," she whined aimlessly, tilting her neck into his scraping teeth and arching for him, opening herself in a way she hadn't before. It wasn't _her fault_ her body rejected him initially. He was _big_, much bigger than her— and she was pretty sure he relished making her nervous. She had given her best effort but clearly, a little help went a _long_ way.

"Fuck— _fucking—_ ah—!" She muttered heatedly as his fervor continued to build. One of his chubby thighs slung over her hips, pushing, rolling her over until she was laying on her belly. The majority of his superior weight pushed her into the mattress while he began fucking her like he meant it. _Could she cum like this?_ Logically it seemed unlikely, but _logic_ wasn't exactly a key player in their marriage.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

He'd earned himself a cigarillo for this little trick, he's decided, as his hips slap roughly into Lydia's soft, perfect asscheeks. Lighting one up in a free hand as the other one continues to pin poor Lydia to the mattress, soft fluffs of harmless, warm ash are soon trickling onto her sweaty nape. Betelgeuse did indeed enjoy making his poor wife nervous, but he wasn't too keen on causing her an unbearable amount of pain, especially sexual pain. It'd teach her bad lessons and it was important to him that she be … _receptive_ to his advances.

With a nasty little noise from within his throat, his thrusts become more rapid, needful. She'd opened up to him so beautifully with just a little bit of help to take the edge off and he was quick to take advantage of it. Grunting, swearing, taking deep inhales on the cigarillo he fucks her sweet, tight ass, building. Lydia can feel his muscles tensing, his grip adjusting and shifting impatiently, the ghoul hissing.

Suddenly, he slows to a heavy rhythm, his hips drawing out every inch before sliding weightily back in. He was not quick to end this too swiftly, it would seem. He suddenly seems to have an altogether _more ghoulish_ idea besides, and Lydia can feel his weight ease behind her briefly. There's a dry crunching pop, and her hips are lifted _just enough._

Lips, mouth, tongue are suddenly engaging her pussy, the wiry explosion of Betel's gravedirt-encrusted hair tickling her thighs. The rest of him is happily continuing to abuse her poor anal passage, hands returning to push her shoulders down into the mattress. He passes Lydia the cigarillo from above in offering as his slime coated tongue drags hungrily up between her delectable labia.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"Uh— _ungh—_ fuck, oh Beej, oh baby!"

The soft, sweet nickname wasn't one she used often. It was just so _viscerally wrong_ for him. But, this was what other girls called their boyfriends, and what they called them in return, and it only felt natural to ramble the ill-suited term of endearment when he was ravaging her the way he was. With his grimy mouth completely encompassing her sensitive pussy— _licking, sucking, devouring whatever remained of round one—_ and that wide cock ruthlessly devastating her anal cavity, Lydia didn't have the capacity to notice the offered cigarillo until he used the tip to trace her swollen lips. The phallic implications of the gesture were not lost on her.

Obedient as always, she accepted it, ignorant to its culpability for the streaks of ash dirtying her flawless back and flaking her raven curls. As soon as she took it with a trembling hand and sucked in a proper drag, he pounced. She should have expected it really, her husband being who he was, but he managed to catch her off guard. A stream of smoke seeped into her lungs at the same that his thick, slimy tongue thrust deep into her only empty sexual orifice. She nearly choked. It was voracious, starving, slithering and fucking in a rapid rhythm that directly contrasted the intensely heavy, savored swings of his hips.

Lydia barely retained the good sense to keep the cherry upright from burning a hole through the luxurious sheets while he went at her. She was so _full_, brimming from her insatiable husband's attention. That he _ripped off his fucking head_ just to get another taste of her made her feel so _loved_ and _wanted_, and so she moaned for him like the whores she knew he liked. Not that Betelgeuse hadn't both earned and deserved these sounds of passion, but Lydia took lascivious joy in ridding herself of whatever filters remained.

Gross, strangled noises of approval were muffled between her thighs, and she was further charmed when she realized he was likely slapping himself in the head with his own balls for the sake of enjoying this feast. In a sudden lustful spur, he bore down on her. The broad hands sprawled across her shoulders pushed down, the entirety of his weight crushing her into the mattress, and his cock lodged itself as far as it could go to stretch her deliciously with its girthy base. Then, he ground down, trying impossibly to force even _deeper_. Simultaneously, his tongue mimicked his prick and stuffed deep, the snake-like tip prodding and stimulating a tiny, secret knot of muscle hidden within.

Everything snapped into place. She _shrieked_ her earth-shattering climax throughout the arboretum, clawing at the sheets, pressing back into him as best she could despite how thoroughly he was dominating her, and gave an encore that made the initial performance seem pale in comparison. Lost in gales of wicked, taboo pleasure, Lydia once more was certain that she existed solely for _this_.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

In the heat of things, Betelgeuse had been called many things throughout his history as a dead guy. _Bastard, disgusting, asshole, freaky-ass motherfucker, sick, twisted, pervert_ and others, all of which were fairly apt in the moment. Even though it wasn't suited for him on a regular basis, Lydia dropping that sweet _"…oh baby!" _was so precious and genuine it made the dried heart in his husk purr with pleasure.

Her inherent sweetness only made his little tricky maneuver with the cigarillo all the more horrendously pleasurable – and even if she couldn't keep up the activity it was worth it just to feel her spasm above his decapitated head. She was _enjoying this_ more than he imagined from the whorish sounds she was making, certainly, apparently she had a freaky streak that ran much wider and deeper than he initially anticipated…or perhaps he _knew_, and was far more interested in _indulging it._ At this point, Betelgeuse had studied her carefully, and for all his blasé and pushy attitude he'd gotten _some of her_ pretty well pinned. In this case, it was a bit more _literal_ of course.

Her unspoken assumption about his positioning was correct – but it wasn't like he wasn't intimately familiar with his own nuts, and he wasn't about to slow down his eager ravaging of her tight ass or pussy in order to spare himself being smacked with them. He's rewarded, of course when she responds so beautifully to him, and he can feel her whole body tighten and flutter for him, pulsing, rising to the occasion.

The sound of her shattering cry as she came for him was _beautiful_. She was so good to him, his Lydia, trusting him enough to let him thoroughly _use her_ in whatever freaky, vile way he could come up with next. He tried at minimum to make it worth her while, despite potentially leaving her sore and upset in the process…and the man had a thorough interest in her climaxes – Lydia was so sexy when she came that it fueled his lustful sessions during the week without her. This one might fuel even two weeks because the encore was that viscerally searing. Lydia's peak was quick to induce his own, and he let loose a hard, rough growl into her, his face thoroughly sopping with her enthusiasm and soon his own as he lost himself to that deluge of pleasure.

Once spent, he carefully reaches once more for the cigarillo, still buried inside of Lydia in both orifices and not eager to pull out right away. Eventually, she can feel the entire, disgusting length of his tongue pull slowly and sloppily from within her canal, slorphing back into his mouth. Smacking his lips, satisfied with the taste and the amount of fluid he plundered from her, his hand lowers the cigarillo to his mouth as he tilts it out from beneath her hips and takes a long drag.

"Think ya like anal babe?" he remarks, smarmily, from down there, "…just a hunch, but I get the distinct feelin' ya do, if the amount of yer pussy juice on my spitter is any indication."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_Anal. Pussy juice. Spitter._ That was entirely too many filthy words in one sentence for Lydia to respect it with an honest answer.

"It was—" _Mind-blowing,_ "— alright." His ego didn't need any more stroking. She hissed when he finally withdrew from her backside, the movement upsetting tender, abused flesh. "But maybe we should just keep that to a _once in a while_ kind of thing." It was cute the way she pretended to have a say in the matter. As if she would deny him if he came knocking at her backdoor again.

"_Oh!" _His withdrawal shifted strange muscles inside of her, and she was suddenly in need of a relief that he could not supply. "I need to… uhm… I'll be back in a minute." With that, she shuffled quickly and clumsily off the bed and made an equally swift, awkward retreat to the bathroom to clean herself up.

"_BETELGEUSE!" _Said poltergeist heard the banshee shriek minutes later as he lazed about their bed in post-coital bliss, not a care in the world. _"I AM NOT AN ASHTRAY!" _


	21. The Master of Horror

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

_Alright?! JUST alright?_ Was she getting bored that quickly?! He thought that was pretty GOOD, thank you very much! "Everyone's a critic," comes the grunt from beneath her as, once released from him, Lydia is quick to a blasé assessment and a hasty exit.

"Once in a while huh?" he grumbles as she disappears into the bathroom, retrieving his head and crunching it back onto his shoulders grotesquely. "I'll _once in a while_ you." The insult made little sense, and as he waits for her he fiddles with the little watch on his wrist idly. That is, until the insulted shriek that comes from the other room, arresting his ears. Ugh, full name usage, too. Yikes.

"Oh eeeh heh," Betelgeuse sounded vaguely apologetic as he called back to the girl, "Sorry babes! You know how messy these things can get…!" blowing smoke out of his nostrils, he finishes off the offending cigarillo, grumbling to himself as he fixed the white dress and laid it out for her in a snap. _Women. So fussy._ "Ash is uh… _great_ for your skin! 'S like an exotic treatment in some cultures, y'know? Just _lookin' out for ya…_"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_"'Exotic treatment' my ass…"_

Lydia pouted all through her shower and redressing. She had come to him in immaculate order, ready to exchange gifts and embark on a romantic date, and in true slob-fashion, he sullied her from toe to tip. It was _exceedingly annoying_ that she had to restyle her hair, redo her makeup, and in general repeat every step she had taken that morning to pretty herself up for him. It was even more annoying considering she knew for a fact he could have her restored to her pre-ravaged state with nothing more than a simple blink or wave of his hand. Nevertheless, pride kept her from asking.

Once she was done with the tedious process, she strolled up to the edge of the bed where he was still laying out— fully nude and content— and stole the blunt he was smoking right from his filthy mouth.

"So?" She began after taking a deep hit, hips cocked and arms crossed in the universal position of 'miffed wife.' She wasn't _truly_ upset with him, but he deserved a little shit after that entire fiasco. "Are you going to take me on a date, or are you done trying to win me over? Since, you know, you've already succeeded in _seducing me…_"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Heeeeeyy!" comes the obstinate whine as Lydia plucks the blunt straight from his lips for herself, looking sulky. "Was smokin' that!"

His expression changed once she took a relatively annoyed stance. She was asking him for _performative goods_. He twined his fingers across his chest and looked up at her miffed body language with a guilty, but rat-like face, scowling. If there was one man you didn't ask for these sorts of things, it was Betelgeuse. Especially after he's gotten exactly what he wants, and especially after being _insulted_. Drama queen.

"Ooooh, so, you're _seduced_," the rest of what she says goes fully unremarked upon, and while she did provide implied _air-quotes_ around the word, Betelgeuse is perfectly content to ignore that completely as well. "Well, I mean," he gives Lydia a once over, crossing his bare ankles and legs. She was tremendously, stunningly beautiful, though he never got enough of the rumpled look of her after a tryst, either. "I don't know. What would a girl like you be _doin'_ hangin' around a guy like me anyway?" he inspects his nails, leisurely-like and clearly putting on an act before those jade yes flit up to his wife again with intensity. He grins.

"Sure. C'moooon. I promised you Vincent Prince, ain't gonna back down on it. Even after that _three-star_ review of makin' ya scream like a banshee twice," his voice shifts to something English and proper, mockingly, _"Dear Neitherworld Gazette - I find Betelgeuse to be lacking in bed. Even after he made me orgasm twice, the entire experience was, shall I dare say, lacking. His giant cock is thoroughly boring, and even thou he is dashingly handsome and can take off his own head to provide me with oral satisfaction, I am, to-wit, unsatisfied. Please inform his manager post haste, for I am quite over the experience. Yours truly, Lydia."_

A quick snap of his fingers provides clothes as if he'd never been lying there naked at all, the familiar striped suit appearing in a blink. So too, appears a black rose, which he passes over to Lydia like a smug reptile. "Unfortunately where I'm from babes, they don't accept returns of the used merchandise. You look amazing."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

It wasn't fair that he could go from _absolutely infuriating_ to _devastatingly charming_ in the span of about thirty seconds. Lydia filtered through a variety of expressions all through his speech, starting with a seething deadpan and ending with a pretty blush and smile once he passed her the ebony rose, thorned and in full bloom. He even went as far as to top it all off with a frank compliment, lacking any of the usual sleaze that made everything he said sound like a lie.

"Awww, Beeeeej," she drawled with sugary sweetness before landing a crimson kiss print on his stubbly cheek. "I didn't mean to _hurt your feelings._ Don't be so sensitive. You know I love your 'giant cock'." Miraculously, she managed to hush out that last part without her already flushed cheeks deepening in color. Moments later, he was bedecked in familiar black and white stripes, and Lydia wasted no time in stringing her camera over her neck— the digital one, his gift to her— and hooking her arm in his. "And I _love_ that suit."

She _did_ love his giant cock, and his suit. For such a self-assured guy, he certainly required a lot of reassurance. In a flash, they disappeared from the lighthouse and rematerialized before an opulent mansion somewhere in the Neitherworld. The solid gold gates that lined the property, which Betelgeuse promptly shoved through without heed to the locks or PA system, were decorated with two letters;** V. P.**

Lydia's heart jumped up into her throat, and her palms were suddenly soaked with sweat. "Uhm… Beej…?" She questioned smallishly as he soldiered them on toward the front door without any kind of hesitation, completely confident. Had he bothered to contact the dead star _at all_ before bringing her here? Or was this going to be a _rude surprise_ for poor Vincent Price? "Are we… _allowed_ to be here…?"

Despite her misgivings, her steps didn't dither on their way up the curly walkway. However, her previous blush had definitely faded to a ghastly, mortified white that rivaled her husband's deathly pallor, stuck somewhere between _starstruck_ and _terrified_ even though she had yet to sight her childhood hero. As they reached the steps, her stomach lurched in revolt, and she was ready to go back to the lighthouse and spend the rest of their day fucking.

"We should just go," she chickened out midway up the steps, forcing Betelgeuse to pull her the rest of the way. "He's probably busy. He has better things to do than deal with fans— this is _embarrassing—_!"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse grumbles pleasantly as Lydia kisses his cheek. That _sort of_ made it better. Her compliment to his suit, too, eased whatever sting she might have incurred with him. He was, after all, _immensely_ easy to please, and anything that Lydia liked about him was something to be proud of altogether.

He did need a lot of reassurance, specifically from his Lyds – mostly because her opinion had become exceptionally, and surprisingly important to him. Not just on a superficial level, either. For Betelgeuse, this has been a bit hard for him to reckon with…but he was doing his best.

Marching up the expansive and twisting driveway with his gal, the ghoul seemed perfectly unworried as far as what reception they may receive here. They're almost to the front door when he feels his lovely companion startle, and resist going further. Suddenly, he's all too aware of her poor sweaty palms in his, and the light on the expansive porch throws her pallor in sharp relief. Oh, that's _adorable_. She's _nervous_.

"Baaaabes," he drawls, wrapping a strong arm around her back and ushering her to the door unrelentingly. "This is his _afterlife_. Man's got nothin' better t'do than this! What I wouldn't give to have adorin' fans showin' up at _my_ door at all hours, I tell ya."

The ghost rings the doorbell, confident enough for the both of them it would seem. "'Sides, we go way back, he'll be happy t'see me, y'see, I did him a few _favors_ n' well, he's been chasin' after me for years to help 'em out here n' there, y'know how it is, you do a guy a couple good turns and-"

The door opens to a surprised Vincent Price, dressed impeccably in a suit and wide tie. He looks much like he did at some of the peak parts of his career, perhaps a little older, his hair carefully groomed back. His eyes were rather sunken, a bit like Beetlejuice but less dark purple. Upon taking in the striped man at the door, those dark eyes narrow. _"You."_ It is not a fond greeting. It is vaguely accusatory, actually.

"Vincey!" Betelgeuse exclaims, arms opening wide, "Hey listen, me n' the wife were in town, thought we'd drop by—"

The striped monster was already halfway through the door before Lydia OR Price could protest, "- figured I'd check in, see how you n' Coral were gettin' on—"

Before either of them could figure out what happened, Betelgeuse was inside, standing in the entryway, "—know it's short notice, but I know how much y'love meetin' yer fans and Lydia here," he firmly plaps his broad hands on her narrow shoulders, "Is probably the biggest one."

There's a beat before Vincent Price vaguely lifts his arm and shuts the door. As if belatedly accepting his fate, he mutters in vague irritation, "Oh, come inside Betelgeist, make yourself at home, not like I have a choice, do I? Anyway, you and I have _some things to discuss_ and have for some time now." At the mention of his fan, and the horrified look on poor Lydia's face, Vincent immediately softens. "Oh dear, I am _sorry_ – your husband is a terrible troublemaker. It's enchanting to meet you…er, Lydia?" he hesitates as if ensuring he'd heard correctly. "That's a beautiful name."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

_Vincent freaking Price_ was saying her name. _Complimenting_ her name! Looking her _in the eye_ and complimenting _her name_ while she stood in his foyer gaping like an idiot.

"Uh…" Was she _allowed_ to talk to him? Surely there was some sort of whacky Neitherworld law against this sort of finagling. This couldn't be _legal_. Long, horrible seconds crept on without anyone speaking, and just when Lydia was certain that she would either burst into flames or turn to stone from the sheer crippling mortification, she took a deep breath, started talking, and _couldn't stop._

"I— uhm. Lydia! Yes, that's my name. Lydia is me. I am Lydia. _It's really not that great of a name—_ I mean, of course it is because you said it is, and you're—" _Vincent freaking Price_ "— you… Also… have a good name."

Previously pale, ashen cheeks were now radiating heat. Big, honey eyes were surely on the verge of bursting from her skull with how widely they had sprung once landing upon the esteemed star. Lydia always assumed he was tall given his imposing presence on film, but now that his spirit was standing before her in all his dark, dignified glory, she could see that he _towered_. Taller even than both Betelgeuse or the Prince, forcing her neck to crane to maintain eye contact. Nervously, she fiddled with the camera strapped about her neck, needing to do _something_ with all that jittery excess energy, only to drop it like a hot potato once she realized what she was doing.

_Great_. Now he probably thought she was some kind of obsessive stalker freak out to harass him for an autographed photo. _"You also have a good name." Fucking brilliant, Lydia. Smooth._

"I'm… _so sorry_, Mr. Price."

Lydia wasn't sure what exactly she was apologizing for, but a thorough acknowledgment of guilt and inferiority seemed necessary before she could continue on existing in his presence. So _many_ lines had been crossed, trespasses made against the revered star. They had just burst into his home that he shared with his wife— _on Valentine's Day no less—_ without any sort of invitation or warning, all because she had been selfish and thoughtless enough to give her beastly husband _permission_. Betelgeuse couldn't be blamed for trying to please her. _This was all her fault._ All this in mind, the poor girl was ready to crawl out of her skin and run away with her skeleton and the last shreds of her reputability.

"We can leave right now— as soon as you want, _obviously_. I— I didn't think— _you're absolutely right, Beej has no manners whatsoever,_ and it's Valentine's Day so you probably want to be alone with _Mrs. Price_ and— and— it's _awful_ of us to intrude, I just— Beej said he knew you and I got _really excited_ because you're just… _amazing—_ but you know that." A stream of unnaturally high-pitched, nervous giggles interrupted her embarrassing rambling. _"Of course you know that, you're Vincent freaking Price."_ The last was mumbled pitifully into her sweaty palms while Lydia did her best to shrink into the floor.

"Happy Valentine's Day. Every movie you've ever touched is a masterpiece. _Seriously, just say the word and we'll go, this was really stupid."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

"Oh," replies Vincent genially, "Coral never did take my last name, did you happen to take ah…" he looks vaguely at Betelgeuse, hands clasped in front of him politely, "…nevermind. Anyway, it's a pleasure to meet you, Lydia. And no, no, I _always_ make time for my fans. I'm very flattered that you like my work."

The smile he gives her is genuine and he gestures smoothly into the rest of the house, every bit as calm and collected to Lydia's nerves, "Let's stop standing in the foyer, though, hm? If you come inside, I'm sure my wife will fix us something – I can show you around and we can chat." He points at Betelgeuse then, "_You_ are to behave yourself, do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Betelgeuse holds his hands up to his chest, affronted – offering a perfectly innocent shrug at Lydia. "Hey hey, I had no plans to the contrary, Vincey, whaddya take me for?"

"A _poltergeist_. Specifically, a _bio-exorcist_ – isn't that what you labeled yourself?" comes the snapped reply as Vincent Price leads them all into the larger portion of the house, "At least your brother has more manners by a hair. You're not off the hook by a long shot, but we'll discuss it _later_."

Betelgeuse was internally having a near conniption anyway. Lydia had never been so excited to see _him_, had she? The ghoul was nearly ready to roll his eyeballs so hard they flung off a cliff at her stuttering and stammering, annoyed that he could never elicit that sort of shy, blushing, divine nervousness within her. Betelgeuse was fixing up a _tremendous_ sulk in response, his posture was already hunched and irritated as he trails them both into the house.

Vincent finally comes to a pause in the living-room, and as the better light from within this room illuminates all three of them, the master of dark cinema suddenly hangs his gaze on Lydia quite intently. "Good heavens," he murmurs in a hush, "My dear, you're still … _alive?"_ he hesitates, "And…very young— _Betelgeuse…_ what have you _done?"_

The reality of the situation is quite stark – and suddenly seems like something out of one of his movies. The plot hits all the right notes. Jamming his hands in his pockets, the only thing Betelgeuse offers is a serpentine grin, head ducked impishly.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"I-if you're sure…" Lydia wasn't about to object to Vincent freaking Price's insistence that he _always made time for his fans._ Every disclaimer and opportunity needed for him to politely boot them back out onto the street if he wished had been provided, but he didn't. To the contrary, he was ushering them further into his home, making promises of _chat_ and _snacks_. The warning he gave Betelgeuse was rightly firm and apt, and Lydia punctuated it with a look at her husband that was ten times as severe as Vincent's passing words of caution.

The dead star's easy acceptance of their intrusion, not to mention his gentle, kindly demeanor absolutely helped to placate some of Lydia's irrational anxiety, but only just so. An inkling of dread managed to creep its way back down her spine once they reached a grand living room and he finally came to notice her status as a _living, breathing_ fan.

"Oh! Yes, well," Lydia was back to stammering again, focusing her gaze bashfully on the floor, "I am, aren't I? To be _fair_, I proposed to him, but— it's complicated—"

Suddenly energized for reasons beyond her comprehension, Vincent drew himself up to his full height and let loose a joyful call down a nearby corridor. _"Coral! Come, my love, you simply MUST hear this!"_

This must have been the wife he and Betelgeuse had alluded to. Lydia was properly embarrassed to not know very much about his personal life outside of his film career and was terrified that this _Coral_ woman might be insulted by her lack of prior knowledge. Moments after being summoned, a sleek, stylish woman in a cocktail dress smoking a cigarette carried by a long, thin-stemmed holder made her appearance through a doorway. She had short, dark hair and was un-classically attractive, with strong features that would have been deemed _too much_ for the silver screen at the time of Vincent Price's peak. She appeared to be of a similar age to her husband, maybe a few years his junior, obviously wearing the same youthful glamour

"You _rang?"_ She drawled, quirking an elegant eyebrow over their guests.

"My dear, please," Vincent escorted Lydia closer to his wife with an arm around her shoulders that made her blush flare all over again. "Tell my wife how old you are."

"Sixteen." The answer came about hushed and wary, its giver unsure as to where this conversation was going.

"_Sixteen!"_ Vincent parroted, glee mounting with each passing moment. "Did you hear that, Coral?! _Sixteen!"_ Coral seemed vastly unimpressed, which did nothing for Lydia's nerves. "And young lady, what year is it now? They don't tell us these things."

"Uhm… 2019?" She replied with furrowed brows, just as perplexed as ever, but smiling now, unable to keep from picking up on Vincent's sheer joy.

"_Thirty-years!"_ The dead star crowed, finally releasing the girl so that he could grasp his otherwise aloof wife by the head and kiss both of her bloodless cheeks. "Nearly thirty years since my death and I have _teenage_ fans, can you believe it?!"

"Of course I can, darling, you're _fabulous,"_ Coral answered smoothly, returning his affection with a posh air kiss and wink. "This is going to be _one of those nights_, isn't it? Cocktails anyone?"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

In the meantime, Betelgeuse had lit a cigarette. Sulkily, he gave Coral the hairy eyeball, and she scowled at him in return – she was no fan of his either, but it seemed that Lydia had been determined _a delight_ as always and he was being tolerated for her presence…again. Lydia's glaring did nothing to help. He hadn't even _done_ anything yet except bring her here! No respect for the dead, hmph.

"Wait a moment," Coral remarked as she glided off to fetch cocktails, "Does that mean you married a _sixteen-year-old_ living girl…? _Betelgeist…_?"

"Hey, it's the only way to get outta this hell-hole, Coral, you read the handbook lately?" came the swift and sulky reply.

"Of course I've read the fucking handbook," came the light response from the woman as she poured them drinks, "Reads like…damned complicated stereo instructions. Almost impossible to wade through. They really need to update that _awful_ thing."

Vincent Price was willing to entirely wave the situation off. "Oh come now," he chided, "She's our guest, and we shouldn't pass judgment on an unusual arrangement or any _marriages of convenience_ eh, my love?"

This caused both Coral and Vincent to suddenly laugh loudly. This compelled Betelgeuse to only sulk harder, and he rolled his eyes. _Ugh_. The un-classic beauty that was Coral had mixed them all Manhattans. "I suppose I shouldn't be giving you a drink, Lydia dear, but this is a different time and place than when we were alive. And I mix a pretty mean one of these if I do say so."

"Oh! I have just the ticket," Vincent suddenly perked up again, "We could … we could re-enact some of my best films!" Coral and Betelgeuse both groaned. Fully undeterred, Vincent shone bright eyes upon Lydia, "Would you enjoy doing that with me, Lydia dear?"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia readily agreed with Coral's derisions of the handbook. The first time she read it, she gobbled up every line with vigor, fascinated by what she had assumed to be a complex, well-thought-out work of fiction. Then, everything changed. It was easy to see how a scared, freshly dead ghoul would have a more difficult time absorbing the information therein than a bored, morbid teenager with nothing better to do.

Despite how much she agreed with the notion that the handbook could use a rewrite, the way Betelgeuse so casually dismissed their marriage as a simple means of escape _stung_. Hopefully, the swell of sudden hurt didn't show on her face. She was being silly. Overly sensitive. He didn't mean it like that. Still, the pain lingered through cocktails, and Lydia couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze while she sipped down her dark, bittersweet cordial.

Only once **the** Vincent Price was engaging her in conversation again, actually offering to act with her was her ache forgotten. So taken aback was she by his offer that neither of their spouses' shared exasperation at Vincent's suggestion even registered.

"Oh—" she gasped, cutting off the no that instinctively wanted to tack itself on at the end. Such a blatant rejection would be far too rude for Lydia's proclivities. "I couldn't! I mean, I _could_. Technically. _I have a lot of scenes from your movies memorized._ But— really, I'm a terrible actress, Mr. Price. You wouldn't want to—"

"Nonsense!" He nipped that train of thought right in the bud, waving off her insecurities with a grand, smooth sweep of his long arm. "Anyone can act! Contrary to popular belief, a flair for the stage is a skill that one can _hone_, regardless of natural-born talent— and something tells me you are a _talented_ young lady." Lydia's cheeks were on fire again. In the background, Betelgeuse seethed and lit yet another cigarette at precisely the same time Coral did. For the moment, it was as though Vincent and Lydia were the only two in the room; the master of horror and his number one fan.

"And please," he added, cocking a grin while a twinkle of life filtered through his cool blue eyes, "call me Vincent. I must insist."

"O-okay… _Vincent_." As many times as Lydia had spoken his name throughout her life, it had never felt so unnatural and forbidden as it did now.

"Atta girl!" He praised, rising up to his full height from the chaise lounge across from her and offering his arm. "Come, let me show you to my personal theater. I do hope it is to your liking. _Now, now, don't be shy,"_ he tutted light-heartedly when she hesitated, the picture of gentlemanly charm. "We'll start with something easy. I know! You're familiar with _House on Haunted Hill_, yes?"

This was all the invitation Lydia needed. In an instant, she was standing, her arm was hooked within his, and the two of them were heading down a lavish, dark corridor. Both Coral and Betelgeuse were forgotten in the wake of Vincent's glamorous charm and the hypnotic effect it was having on Lydia.

"It's one of my _favorites!"_ She gushed as they walked, torn between ogling the dead star or his richly decorated home. There were more doors than she could count, the halls twisting and turning endlessly. She would surely get lost if she tried to navigate back the way they had come without a chauffeur. "Next to _The Pit & the Pendulum._ Or _The Fly."_ Still blushing girlishly and overcome with sudden giggles, she kept pace with him even as he quickened just so— as if eager to get to the show. "On our first date, Beej took me to the drive-in theater to see _The Abominable Dr. Phibes."_

Vincent was astounded that the deplorable poltergeist had succeeded in taking this delightful young woman on a date _anywhere_, but was much too tactful to say so. Eager to leave the subject of her moldy husband behind in favor of more _interesting_ pursuits, he ushered her through a drawn velvet curtain that led to the previously mentioned _home theater._ It was unlike anything Lydia had ever seen. She was expecting grandiosity, but certainly not on this scale.

Mr. Price's "home theater" was an _amphitheater_. Not as large as ancient Roman and Greek monuments, but every bit as beautiful. An opaque cloud of mist blurred the ceiling, obscuring any potential existence of a roof, but Lydia suspected that the lighting would change to suit their needs just fine. Rows and rows of lush crimson seating circled the large crater-like stage at the center of the room, a shadowy abyss that seemed to suck up any stray beams of light that hit it.

"All _excellent_ choices, my sweet," Vincent murmured gently so as to not startle the dazzled girl at his side as he led her down an aisle toward center stage. "However, I think I have just the scene in mind to get you warmed up. There aren't even any lines! All you have to do… is be _scared_." Some of that syrupy, sinister energy he was oh-so-famous for crept into his tone here, and Lydia felt it vividly. "I have no doubt you're capable of producing _bone-chilling_ screams. You've certainly studied all the necessary material."

"I can scream," Lydia insisted just a tad too quickly, keen to please.

"Lovely," Vincent purred and with a flick of his wrist, a vat of— _harmless—_ acid bubbled up from the void-like stage. "I've always been fond of the murder of my fictional wife Annabelle, likely due in part to the fact that Carol was _insufferable_. She wore white for this scene as well if you'll recall. Though I can assure you, dear, she was nowhere near as pleasant to be around." A sly wink accompanied his praise, and Lydia's pulse fluttered against her will. "And only half as pretty."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Indeed, Betelgeuse's abrasive brush-off of their marital vows was purely to make a statement and avoid any kind of critique on their relationship. Not that he wasn't proud of her, or proud to be with her – it was just an arrangement that he was tired of discussing with anyone who might balk at it, especially his fellow deceased. _Especially_ with someone Lydia admired, so he put it into terms he knew they'd understand.

As the night proceeded, however, and he was conscripted to _best behavior_, he saw fit primarily to glower at the master of horror that was actively charming the pants off his beloved wife. Smoking was the only solution, and he and Coral were soon left to their own devices.

"I'd begrudge 'em more if I didn't like his movies," the ghost mutters, "He's almost as good as I am at that," he gestures after them with annoyance, "It's impressive."

Coral chuckles gently and regards the ghoul through lidded eyes, "You have no idea. We were always a bit adventurous, but I didn't like any woman taking _too much_ of his attention, you know. We haven't seen a living soul since we died, I'm sure it's refreshing. But Vincent has _always_ been dreadfully charming. You mustn't take his affections to heart. I think he's probably just excited he hasn't been forgotten – you know how it is when you die."

Betelgeuse couldn't help but agree with her, frowning distinctly. "Yeah, yeah," he murmurs, "I think the last time someone was that excited to see me I had a ten kilo delivery of raw Columbian, y'know?"

This made Coral laugh merrily, "I'd be about that happy to see you too, with that kind of gift!"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Lydia could _scream_ alright, and for Vincent Price, she would have screamed all night long. They ran through scene after scene after scene, feeding off of each other's enthusiasm. Vincent said "jump" and she _leapt_, falling gracefully into every role he cast her in. Any nerves and insecurities she might have held onto at the beginning were washed away in the vat of non-corrosive acid when they re-enacted the murder of Annabelle. Gasping, she had emerged splashing after holding her breath as long as she could— _for dramatic effect—_ only to be met with applause from all those in attendance. With surprising strength and effortless grace, Mr. Price lifted her from the pool with a single arm, magic'd her back to a state of dryness, and assured her that her performance was _"exquisite."_

Time flew by while they tossed lines back and forth, neither requiring a script. The further on the night crawled, the more complex the scenes he chose became. Was he testing her? If so, Lydia had come _prepared_. The sets and costumes changed rapidly at his whim, and each time Lydia rose to the occasion, often recognizing which film and which scene they were about to depict by ambiance alone. In turn, Vincent was _enthralled_. After the third scene or so, Betelgeuse and Coral stopped clapping. When her vocal cords began to ache from her numerous "murders" and she thought to glance out to the audience, her heart stuttered.

Her husband and Vincent's wife were seated rather _comfortably_ near the back of the arena. Both drinking, both smoking, devilish smiles curling both of their lips while Coral laughed at something Betelgeuse said. Immediately, searing jealousy reared its ugly head. _He wasn't that funny._

"Vincent?" Lydia inquired tentatively but without any shy hesitation, much more comfortable with using his name at this point. "Would it be alright if I chose the next scene?"

"Anything," he promised rapidly, stopping the formation of the next setting in its tracks. His every motion crackled with excited energy, lightning flashing across those pale blues whenever they landed on her.

"It's… _different_ from the ones we've been doing." His brow quirked with interest and he nodded his ascent once more. "Also, I've only ever practiced by myself, so I might not be any good."

"_Insanity!" _He decried, increasingly restless the longer she played coy. "Oh, that I could have worked alongside you while my heart still pumped blood! I wouldn't have been nearly as successful for the world would surely have fallen in love with _you_ instead! You would have stolen every scene!_ 'Terrible actress' _she says, _'might not be any good.'_ Pft. You are magnificent! A true _diva!"_

"Vincent, stop," she dithered as he took the top of her hand in a gentle, yet passionate kiss, and once more scanned the audience for her husband. He was watching her again. _Good_. "I was hoping maybe— _if you're up to it—_ we could do the dance between Vulnavia and Dr. Phibes. It's just such a _beautiful_ scene—"

This time around, it was Mr. Price doing the jumping. "Done."

In seconds, they were both clothed appropriately. The stage swirled and reformed to meet their needs, dual staircases emerging at opposite ends that met a floor with twining, art-deco engravings. Once more, she wore all white in stark contrast to Vincent's black. The effect was just as striking now as it was on film.

"Beej?" She called out loudly enough to get her husband's attention before Vincent could conjure the music for their waltz into existence, voice echoing. "Would you _pretty please_ come take pictures? If you don't mind, of course, Vincent." He did not. "My camera's in this seat down here."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse had the modicum of capacity for crude, offensive wit, the sort that Coral liked it would seem, and she was apparently willing to put aside any disgust for the ghoul in lieu of entertaining herself. Never one to miss an opportunity, Betelgeuse had seized on the moment. Coral wasn't half bad, really, though she had far more class than he would ever have in her tiny pinky than he did in his entire vile body. What Lydia failed to realize was it was only a matter of time before the ghoul said something _horrendous_ and earned her ire – he just hadn't done it yet, and so, Lydia was left to view them as _getting along fabulously._

Jade green eyes, however, catch the amorous kiss placed upon his wife's hand. Lydia can see his expression change, briefly, but he doesn't move from his seat – apparently, he is _letting it slide_ as his wife seems to be having the time of her life…that was the point of this, wasn't it? Surely, if this were Pamela Anderson, Vincent would be slobbering all over her, too…right? _Maybe_.

He was only sort of paying attention to what they had been saying on the stage, besides. He had been busy with Vincent's wife, though his eyes would scan for Lydia's precious imitation of one scene or another. As Lydia called for him though, the ghoul was quick to stumble over Coral clumsily, making her _titter_, and out of the row of seats. High-stepping quickly down the aisle, Betelgeuse wrapped the camera strap around his neck with a bumbling, rushed, "Sure sure, yeah, I can uh, do that, no problem."

He hadn't even caught what scene they were going to do right off, immediately fiddling with the digital contraption instead, his tongue sticking out from between moldy teeth. Always over-eager, this one, and apparently oblivious to Lydia's little scheme, he sets up right at the base of the stage with enthusiasm. With the appearance of the automaton band, however, there was no question – this was from Dr. Phibes… the first thing they'd ever watched together. How strange it would play out right in front of him except with his wife as… his brain slowly clicked into place. His wife as Vulnavia, the beautiful mute assistant, there was no mistaking the outfit and strange art-deco crown. She looked a sight in such a thing, beautiful and ephemeral – especially with her hair fully tucked up into the headpiece, high cheekbones suddenly standing out. Crudely, though, the ghoul crouched at the edge of the stage could only take the appreciation so far before imagining having his way with her in such an outfit, her beauty spread out underneath him covered in nothing but that heavenly, white silken flow. _Dreamy_.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse was in place at the edge of the stage, camera in hand, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration while he fiddled with the buttons, his eagerness to _get it right_ clear with his body language. There. That was better. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and dropped into character. She wasn't Lydia anymore. She was _Vulnavia—_ beautiful, but deadly. A willing slave to her master's whims, doomed to love one who was too hungry for revenge to ever love her back. The nostalgic, familiar music began to play, and her eyelids drifted up at the same time as her arm, drawing the angular silhouette of her gown to highlight the beauty of its complex design.

Floating as effortlessly as any spirit, she descended from the top of the staircase to meet her beloved centerstage. Arms open, he accepted her with reverence. Once his large, leather-clad hand took her daintier palm, they crossed the floor together in time with the music, perfectly in sync with one another. _One… two… three… four… five… six…_ The music dipped and Vulnavia arched with it, flourishing the train of her gown dramatically to meet Dr. Phibes face-to-face— _so to speak—_ and properly begin their waltz. Distantly, the flash of a camera registered in the peripheral of her gaze, but nothing on her stoic expression shifted to convey acknowledgment. It wasn't real. Betelgeuse and Coral didn't exist here. Only she and her wonderful, genius Doctor.

Bouncing and twirling, they replicated the scene in perfect harmony as light and shadow personified, two sides of the same coin with differing motivations toward a common goal. At one point, he released her and she whirled for him, neck snapping to use the focal of his beautiful mask as a spotting point like any ballerina worth their salt. One way, then another she turned, the sharp edges of her gown flurrying like daggers of ice through a gentle blizzard.

Eventually, as all dances must, it came to a close. One last time, he released her from his spell-binding hold and arm outstretched, Vulnavia departed for the staircase opposite the one she came down. There was a layer of quiet pain marring her aloof mask that bespoke a deep desire to return to her master's arms. Instead, ever-obedient, she paused on the balcony and offered him a still wave in a bittersweet gesture of parting and mutual understanding. The salute was returned, Vulnavia exited through the doorway, and just like that, Lydia was back.

The amphitheater was heavy with silence in the wake of their performance. Listless, overcome with an emotion he couldn't quite place, Vincent waved an arm to return the stage, Lydia, and himself to their usual trappings.

"Lydia," he breathed, eyes wide as he stared from the other side of the now barren arena,_ "… thank you."_

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse idly wondered _where_ Lydia learned such a trick, or at least, how to waltz. Dutifully, he futzes with the camera and plugs away at …well, hopefully getting good photos. The ghoul isn't much of a photographer, and a lot of these are probably going to be blurry or potentially focused on the particulars of Lydia's assets that he likes the best. But he tries!

After a number of flourishes though, Betelgeuse's brain kicks in somewhere along the midway point. The black cloaked Vincent was, perhaps, holding a little too _enthusiastically_, perhaps the pair enmeshed a little too _realistically_ and perhaps _flawlessly_ for his liking. Something in his belly twists, and coils, and has turned thoroughly sour. Jealousy? Perhaps. He wasn't thinking clearly. Was that his Lydia after all? She fell into these roles so easily he hadn't noticed. An actress, clearly, she was – a performer. Betelgeuse knew something of performance, the art of the beguile, and as Lydia perfectly reenacts the last portion of the scene, jade eyes searched mightily for a hint that it was still his sweet wife somewhere in there.

He could find none. So given to the role she had rendered the mute Vulnavia complete, and off she goes into the stage partition. Lydia herself returns afterward of course, but something nags at the ghoul deep, deep in the pit of his throat. _She could lie._ She could, she could lie and play a role and go through the motions of something – appearing to mean it, appearing, by all rights, to _enjoy_ it. If he had the capacity for goose-flesh, he'd probably have it, and while he very much appreciated her talents…they clawed at his side. _Was she lying about other things…? Him…?_

He was grateful when it was all over and clutching the camera, he was at a loss for a moment – but only a moment. Time to cover up those feelings – bury them, for now. Vulnerability wasn't something he shared with others easily if at all, it was time to put on his own performance. The silence was interrupted suddenly after Vincent's heavy appreciation by Betel's rude and loud clapping, an oafish, greasy smile on his features.

"Eeey! Great. Y'looked just… hot as hell in that white dress honey, we'll see if the pictures come out," he hands Lydia back her camera enthusiastically, wrapping an arm around her shoulders bombastically and perhaps a little too tightly. "Well, what time _is_ it anyway? Y'know, I haven't been keeping track n' well, breathers have this thing they do called sleep, they actually need it," he rambles, wildly, "Ain't it precious? Anyhow, we oughtta probably be hittin' the ole dusty trail, she's gotta do things like _eat_ n' the lizards in my pockets ain't a treat for her, really, I've tried but they squirm too much for her likin' I think. Ah look, she can barely keep her head up, poor thing…" Lydia, in reality, seemed _fine_, if a tad sleepy. "So, y'know! 'S been swell, but the swelling's gone down—"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Vincent and Lydia both had immediate negative reactions to Betelgeuse's slimy slithering onto the stage and subsequent insistence that her mortal coil required they cut the night short. So what if it was true?! She was having fun! The night couldn't end _yet!_ This was a _once in a lifetime_ opportunity and Lydia had no intention of squandering it, not when she and her hero were getting along so swimmingly.

"Beeeej," she pouted, squirming, trying and failing to extricate herself from beneath his heavy arm. "I'm not tired!" _A lie._ "I can eat later!" _A truth, _but the ill-timed hungry growl that echoed from her belly right after saying this worked effectively to undermine that.

"Coral can cook something… _appropriate_ for the young miss, isn't that right, my love?" Vincent's suggestion was only slightly less desperate than Lydia's childish whining, the old-Hollywood star having the experience and poise to disguise his inappropriate excitement, but only just so. The pleading look he aimed up the rows at his aloof wife was comical nonetheless. The indifferent Coral was sprawled elegantly across her seat in the back row, long legs crossed and propped on the back of the seat below her, watching the scene play out with an almost amused glint in her dark eyes.

"I suppose," she sighed her consent with dramatized exasperation after a long moment, before taking a savoring drag from her perpetual cigarette. With leisurely, syrupy slow motions, she gathered herself and made to leave from the room. Just before passing through the velvet curtain that made up the exit, she aimed a severe back glance over her smooth shoulder. _"You owe me, Vincent."_ Immediately following her vague warning, dark lips curled into a barely-there smile and she aimed a saucy wink _right at Betelgeuse._ Lydia did not like it. Then, she was gone.

"It's settled then!" Mr. Price clapped his hands together, the smack echoing with finality throughout the space. For Betelgeuse, there would be no scheming his way out of this torture of his own making. He had presented his wife to Vincent Price on a silver platter, and it was quite clear that the Master of Horror had every intention of enjoying his meal. "You're staying for dinner!"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Betelgeuse had the good sense to adjust his wrinkled tie after the look Coral throws him before she leaves, and he stares after her in a vague sense of surprise and perhaps shock. His tongue swipes his suddenly dry lips, and he is rendered mute for a number of moments. _What was THAT?_

In another time and place, he would have _eagerly_ made a hot mess out of Coral Browne. She was a steamy piece of work and he was a horny, desperate ghoul. But in the current moment, the situation that was evolving was one that involved Vincent Price's sloppy seconds, his wife, and perhaps a pair-off that … yet again, in another time and place … he might actually accept. But not with Lydia. No. No amount of sex with other dead women could hope to touch the honey succulence of everything Lydia Deetz was. That was no trade-off to Betelgeuse – that was almost being _cheated_, swapping a dead woman for his live one. But…perhaps, he was jumping too far ahead. He did, after all, have a _suspicious mind._

So, it seemed, they were staying for dinner. The clap of Vincent's hands, all too happy and eager, was a further irritant. Even as Lydia squirmed, he held her closer, even going so far as to plant a big, wet smack on her temple.

"Well, looks like I'm outvoted," the ghoul remarks, "They didn't tell me marriage was a democracy, but here we are, right?! _Wild times, I tell ya._ Well kitten, we'll burden Mister Price for as long as he'll have us, huh? Howabout that?"

Slimy, covering up his own discomfort and _thoroughly_ laying it on thick for his wife, he releases her so she can walk with her idol. The truth was, he owed Vincent, though what kind of price he was going to attempt to extract was … troubling to consider. Maybe it was nothing. Still, this was a terrible idea. "Don't ever say I never did nothin' for ya," he murmurs at Lydia's nape almost under his breath, dropping back behind her as all three of them exited the theater.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Despite all blustering and objections to the contrary, Lydia barely made it through dessert— a heavenly chocolate soufflé that Coral claimed was a "secret family recipe" when asked. Vincent and Lydia spent dinner much as they had the previous part of the evening; gushing over each other, chatting excitedly, scarcely sparing a moment for either of their annoyed spouses. However, the girl was only human and could only keep up for so long. She drifted off on one of the cushier couches in Price's lounge in the middle of one of his stories.

Coral had long since retired for the evening, having grown weary of company. Watching her husband fawn over the adorable breathing ingenue had ceased being amusing, and quickly became boring. Since it was quite obvious that Betelgeuse was more interested in watching after his wife— _understandably so—_ than entertaining her, there was nothing left for her there.

Now, only the dead men were left to tell their tales.

"I must say, Betelgeist," Vincent began, lighting up a cigar for himself and for his guest, then pouring out some aged cognac from a decanter into two crystal glasses, "when I saw that it was you who had come to darken my doorstep, I had no idea I was in for such a delightful evening. Consider your past sins… _forgiven_." Some of Lydia's bountiful mercy must have rubbed off on the star.

"She's much too good for you— _as I'm sure you're aware."_ A lesser ghoul mightn't have had the audacity to insult Betelgeuse so openly and shamelessly, but Mr. Price was confident enough in himself and his status to speak freely. Even more so now that the charming mortal girl was gone from the waking realm and oblivious to their talk. "Please do let me know if she ever tires of your tricks. From the looks Coral was giving you, I'm quite confident she'd be amenable to a…" He paused for a moment, considering what might be the most tactful way to phrase his suggestion. _"Gentleman's swap."_

A decidedly _ungentlemanly_ emotion darkened Vincent's baby blues as they swept over the sleeping Lydia. Ignorant and innocent to the goings on in the parlor, a gentle girlish snore crawled up her throat and she snuggled deeper into the cushion she was cuddling.

"Though I wouldn't fault you for wanting to keep her all to yourself," a rakish grin was aimed at the poltergeist, "greedy chap."

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Crossing his ankles where he sat, Betelgeuse happily accepted the cigars and cognac. This, plus a good meal, was the _minimum recompense_ required to keep him in good humor since Vincent had very obviously taken all of Lydia's attention for the entire evening. It was a poor Valentine's Day for Coral, and a poor looking one for Betelgeuse as well – part of him _almost_ tempted to follow her to bed as she left their company earlier in the evening. But, he remained, and at least was sipping good liquor as a booby prize. He always did like fine things just as much as he loved scraping insects off his own shoe and eating them, being a very peculiar contrast of utter slob and shabby connoisseur.

Eyebrows raised thoroughly upwards to the top of his head as Vincent summarily forgave his previous trespasses. Well, that was a benefit. His mood was improving by the second. But _then…_ his intentions, which Betelgeuse had previously been suspicious of bubbled to the surface. Had it been _any other ghoul_, had it been proposed _any other way_ – there would have been an instant, knock out, drag down, horrendous sort of fight. As it was, he glowered at Vincent for a brief moment and swirled his drink. He followed Vincent's hungry gaze to Lydia, his own jade ones hanging on her for a moment longer than his, before meeting his host's attention again. Sucking the air through his grimy teeth, he inspected his disgusting, yellowed, dirt-encrusted fingernails.

"Ah, well, that's…a _helluva offer_, Vincent. Don't get me wrong," he threw a sudden grin at his companion, but it rang hollow, "I _personally_ think yer little protégé would take you up on it in a heartbeat, 'cause she still has those. But I can't just, y'know, _speak for her_." Certainly not! That would be … well, exactly like he did at their original wedding, and a bunch of other times, and — well, Vincent didn't need to know, did he?! "As 'er husband though, I haven't quite grown tired of my _personal enjoyment_ – you understand. Man has needs. Right now, I think _mine_ are about as much as the lil vixen can handle if I'm bein' honest with you. I'm a handful and a half. 'Specially with the new house," he takes a series of pleased puffs on his cigar, "Haven't even gotten t'bending her over half the furniture, and there's a couple rooms I haven't locked us both inta yet. She's got stamina, y'know, but…" he gestures to her sleeping, prone form, so innocently cuddled on the couch, "…limits."

That wasn't…exactly a lie. It was also grossly too much information, in the hopes that he'd make Vincent recoil and withdraw from the idea. "Speakin' of, I'd better be carryin' her off for home," the ghoul slaps his knees in finality, "I'll tell 'er 'bout your offer, though." So they could both _laugh_ about it maybe. Standing, Betelgeuse gathers Lydia into his arms swiftly, the cigar still dangling from his lips. "Thanks for a helluva evening, Vincent. We should," _never do it ever again,_ "Have a repeat performance sometime."

Once goodbyes had been said, Betelgeuse is quick to return himself and Lydia both to the lighthouse. Their love nest. His home with her. The thing that he had quelled the entire evening suddenly rent up through him like a volcano – a mixture of possessiveness, desire, anger, jealousy, and other sour, furious, entangled feelings. He had been forced into _best behavior_ for Lydia, and now that little contract was over. He could feel the bonds of his control, the ego that he held to so tightly, needing to be strengthened after pretty much being _cuckolded_ most of the night.

Carrying the sweet, sleeping girl straight up into the gilded cage of their bedroom, he gently laid out her prone form and without hesitating began to undress her. This was, initially, an attempt to make her comfortable… but swiftly turned into something else as his bright, intense eyes roamed each portion of milky skin he revealed. Soft breasts exposed, his mission of comfort is discarded, and the ghoul has instead gently begun to massage them hungrily as his bulky form climbs atop the petite, beautiful body that endlessly provides relentless temptation. Sloppy, wet kisses are drooled down Lydia's vulnerable neck, and without any sort of resistance from the dozing girl, the ghoul simply _proceeds_ – he rucks himself up under the layers of her dress, barely bothering to get undressed himself. He manages to get his pants down to his knees, and Lydia's sweet little underthings down to hers before pushing up between her lax thighs.

He was going to take what was his, slake the anger and lust that had been building all evening. One hand continued to enjoy the tender flesh of her soft breast, the other drawing a limp leg around his hip as he sunk downwards, pushing the fat head of his cock inside that heat that always called to him. Like a helpless addict, he was fucking her loudly and forcefully within a few seconds, the great beastly pig grunting and heaving animalistically into poor Lydia's shoulder, his hand gripping hard at the leg that flopped lamely with his over-eager humping.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Accurate in his assessment, Vincent did indeed sneer at the poltergeist's vulgar references to his sullying of the sweet innocent laying out on his couch. In her white dress and pretty red bow, he could almost pretend she was a virgin. Nevertheless, the knowledge that Betelgeuse had already broken her in _thoroughly_ made her no less comely in Vincent's eyes. If anything, she now more closely resembled one of the tragic damsels from his films, in need of saving. Unfortunately, poor Lydia would find no salvation here— not in the whole of the Neitherworld, not in Vincent Price's opulent mansion, and certainly not in the loving arms of her husband.

"_Yesss,"_ the star hissed, a dour expression pulling his face down. Like Betelgeuse, he was accustom to getting what he wanted, and somewhat annoyed that things had not gone his way. "Quite. Farewell then, Betelgeist. Do give sweet Lydia my regards. _I believe it's time I see to my own wife…_"

* * *

Lydia was having an… _interesting_ dream.

It started off innocently enough. She and Percy were having one of their picnics. He gnawed at a fat, fresh cut of salmon while she chewed on gummy worms picked straight from the technicolor grass.

"I don't like him," the cat derided her husband, then used a rib bone to pick at stray bits of flesh stuck between his sharp teeth.

"Why not?" Lydia frowned, setting her camera to the side. "He's sweet."

"He's a _monster_."

Here, the girl smiled, warm and saccharine, and gathered the skinny cat into her arms. "I think you're just jealous, Percy."

"Am not," he denied, purring, leaning into her petting and scratches. She found a sweet spot beneath his chin, causing him to kick out his leg in a gesture not unlike something the slobbering hellhound that had taken his place would have done. "_…maybe a little…_"

Then, abruptly, everything changed.

"_Get lost, wuss-puss."_

With that, Percy was torn from her arms by an impatient poltergeist. Hissing and spitting, Betelgeuse bodily tossed the furious alley cat away into some nearby bushes, before aiming a hungry gaze down at his wife. Before she knew what was happening, she was on her back and he was above her, ripping her dress open to molest her breasts and trailing sloppy kisses down the pale column of her throat. Her limbs were heavy. Though he wasn't holding her down, not really, she couldn't move, couldn't push him off to go check on her kitty cat.

"Percy," she gasped, in both the waking realm and the land of dreams, earning a vicious growl from her aggravated lover. He was fucking her then, rough and with unbound hunger. Very slowly, dreams began to bleed into reality. The cotton candy sky darkened but remained just as vivid, and three moons formed in the swirling bed of stars. "Percy," she called again with eyes open, whimpering, confused and scared by the jarring transition. Wild white-blonde hair tickled her chin, and a familiar pattern of bold black and white stripes caught the edge of her vision.

"Beej—" she gasped out, finally saying the correct name, but cut off from speaking coherently by his envious, lustful attention. "What— what's going on— _ahh!"_

Mind and body still drugged by dream dust, she was beyond keeping up with the monster above her. He had come for his prize yet again, and yet again, Lydia's agency was lost in the ferocious tide of his desire.

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

The ghoul immediately stops in his tracks, albeit briefly. "Who's _Percy?"_ he hisses, almost to himself, knowing Lydia was too sleep-ridden to properly answer. Impatiently, he pushes on, though, losing himself in the heat between her thighs until orgasm hits him hard, burying himself deeply inside of her in release.

The angry fog in his brain was starting to clear, _just enough_ to think somewhat straight. Especially as his poor wife was starting to awaken under his lustful overwhelm. He could keep at her as long as he liked, but mercifully, he seems content to stand there and smoke a cigarette instead…though he doesn't withdraw, his cock still twitching as if the _potential_ for more was still being decided on. "I'd be more angry if I hadn't been called every Dick, Larry and Moe out there." He says, aloud to Lydia's sleepy form, still gently pushing and teasing at her breasts idly, "We're home. You fell asleep. Vincent Price said he wanted to shtup your brains out but I got to doin' it first."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

The last remnants of her dream were fading away quickly, forced from her with each sudden, jolting thrust. She tried to grasp onto the edges of the fuzzy images—_ a skinny black cat, a vivid candied landscape—_ but they were already gone by the time he finished inside her and she was able to realize what was happening.

"I don't…" He might as well have been speaking another language to the drowsy girl. The edge of irritation in his gravelly voice, not to mention the vicious manner with which he awoke her, belied a frustration she was beyond understanding. "What are you _talking about,_ Betelgeuse?"

Groggy ire of her own filtered through her intonation. Vincent Price wanted to sleep with her? That _couldn't_ be true. Yes, he was admittedly flirty, but her husband must have misunderstood something. Uncomfortable and cranky, she squirmed beneath him, trying to adjust to a more agreeable position despite the rigid cock and irate poltergeist it belonged to hindering her efforts.

"I didn't— I didn't call you anything… I didn't even know _this_ was happening!" The more she came to, the angrier she got. She didn't particularly mind that he had taken liberties while she slept— it's not like this was the first occurence— but by the time she awoke, it was over before she could get anything out of it, and now he was making baseless accusations against her… like he was _mad_ at her. What right did he have? _Jerk!_ "Why are you acting so crazy?!"

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

Frustrated, the ghost hunches over Lydia staring down into her pretty, irate face. "Ain't crazy!" he hisses, and imitates her voice distinctly. "Percy…! _Percy,"_ he drops it, then, "Always goin' on about this _Percy_ in yer sleep—"

He stoops then, and nuzzles against her slender neck, taut with annoyance. He purrs at her, suddenly, countenance quickly shifting like the tide. "Don't be pissed," he mumbles, "But I ain't lyin'… got me real _heated_. Vincent fuckin' Price asked for a _gentleman's swap_ 'fore I left. I said Coral Browne was a poor swap fer you, he didn't like that." That _wasn't_ really what he said, but it was inferred. "Said it so smooth an' pretty I _almost_ took him up on it, fer your sake, seein' as _y'like_ him so much. But then, I remembered…" he squirms against her plush thighs, driving his cock slightly deeper with a low huff, "…yer mine, all the way babes."

He drags a mottled clawed hand, digging his yellowed nails up one of her thighs slowly. "I know … that he's famous, an' all, an' had it been me in yer place I woulda done the same thing, but it's… _hard_ watchin' a man like that touch ya, lust for ya, when I _knows_ it, an' I'm trynna be good for your sake. Y'been _real good_ t'me, so I was tryin' to … y'know, return the favor, bringin' ya over there."

_Good_ seems to be so arbitrary… considering he decided to forego consent entirely for this little encounter with her. Like with all things, there weren't really rules and Betelgeuse's rotten corpsey mind only _vaguely_ recalls what is acceptable, and most of the time he simply ignores _that_ anyway. His other hand releases from her breast to swipe a few strands of dark hair away from her face, and he leans forward, pressing mossy, dank lips to hers, whether or not she's feeling particularly receptive.

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

At this point, Lydia was still trying to play catch up. The mention of _Percy_ intoned in a way that was completely and utterly _wrong—_ in her voice no less— was enough to make her cringe and arch away from his nuzzling. Not that this in any way deterred him.

_Don't be pissed._ Don't be pissed?! He was accusing her of having dirty dreams about her cat! Now that he'd insisted it more than once, Lydia was a bit more willing to take stock in his claim that Vincent _freaking_ Price wanted to sleep with her. That was… a _difficult_ concept for Lydia to grasp, her comprehension muddled even further by her husband's thick, intrusive cock. Taken with a jealous, angry sort of affection, he remained lodged within her— _stretching, fucking slowly—_ as if to say that _this, this was her rightful place._ His every word and action screamed _mine!_ Every touch was a brand, each growling hiss a dark promise.

Surely, he was joking. He wouldn't have given Mr. Price permission on her behalf, even if what he said was true, which she sorely doubted. _He wouldn't. Never._ Still, the casual lie— _because it had to be a lie, for her sanity's sake—_ that he had considered accepting Vincent's alleged proposal, even for a moment, was troubling. She wasn't anything special. She was just a normal living girl. Mr. Price was just being nice. He didn't want _that. It couldn't be true._ Something somewhere must have gone awry. This just had to be another case of Betelgeuse seeing adversaries where there weren't any.

"You're insane," she accused again with more conviction this time, eyes wide on his heaving form above her. It wasn't a nice thing to say, but then again, Betelgeuse didn't particularly deserve kindness from her right then. "Percy's a _cat_. I lost him a long, _long_ time ago—" her voice wavered here, thick with emotion, but her eyes remained dry and harsh with something like betrayal as she gazed up at her monstrous husband. "Vincent doesn't— he doesn't want to _sleep with me._ His wife was right there! And she's— she's _so much_ prettier than me and more sophisticated... _and taller._ Why would— it doesn't make any sense. You must've misunderstood. What did he say—?"

Betelgeuse appeared to lose interest in her stuttering, rushed monologue and took her up in a bitter kiss. His lips were cold and rough on hers, claiming her mouth with a single-minded dedication that left no room for her to reject. She didn't even try. There was no point. He would have his way. He always did.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

_A cat? _Why the hell was Lydia calling out a cat's name then, every time she'd intruded her dreams? Oh, well, admittedly…that would explain the one he threw into the bushes as he marched into her subconscious unbidden. He didn't even bother wiping his slovenly lips after such a messy, forced kiss was delivered upon his aggravated wife.

"He don't _care_ that Coral was right there. Doncha know anythin' about Vincent Price n' Coral Browne? They were… _adventurous_ as breathers and I can't imagine that stopped once they were dead. In fact, probably got _way more interestin'."_

Betelgeuse snortles a chuckle, and pinches Lydia's cheek with a claw and a finger annoyingly, "Ah ah ah. I knew when I saw you you was somethin' _real special,_ cookie. I have _excellent_ taste, the _best_, in fact. You can keep comparin' yerself to Coral, but she ain't got your va va voom, _get it?"_

Suddenly, and without warning, Betelgeuse's face shifts into Vincent Price's serene, pleasant one – minus the burning green eyes that are very clearly not his at all. It isn't clear if he intends to startle Lydia, but he repeats the honeyed words the actor spoke word for word down at her. He mimics the intonation as best he can – once he's done, he shifts his face back to his own horrid ghoulish one. His dick, of course, is still deeply anchored within her, which makes the entire farce even more bizarre.

"I don't even talk like he does, Lyds, okay? I can't _make that stuff up,"_ that's a lie, he probably could if he really wanted to, but the ghoul seems insistent at least, "I'm tellin' ya, it was so god damn slick I nearly slipped on it. But," he growls, suddenly roughly jerking his hips with a ridiculous, but decidedly emphatic manner enough to make her whole body shake, "You're." _grunt, SLAP_ "Mine." _grunt, SLAP_, "I won ya." _grunt, SLAP_, "Fair…an…" _SLAP, SMACK_, "**Square**!"

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

"_Ah—_ AH— Beej—! I don't— _want—_ VinCENT—!"

She said it like she meant it, but it was unclear as to whether or not the message got through. Betelgeuse was out of her reach.

Each thrust was vicious and deep, the jealous poltergeist throwing his entire heavy weight into them. Talons gripped tight into her hips as he lifted himself back onto his knees, digging in carelessly, drawing little pinpricks of blood as he used the bulk of his arms alone to pull her to meet him. In this position, he had a clear view of the way her soft, delicious little breasts bounced under his abuse, the way her pretty face twisted and contorted with the aching euphoria he was forcing on her. The way she called another man's name— _yet again—_ while his cock fucked deep within her gave Betelgeuse a taste of what it might have looked like if Vincent Price was ever allowed to have his way.

_Unacceptable_. First, she mentions that _Percy_ pussy, now _Vincent?_ Only one name should be spilling from those slick, plump, petite lips of hers. Dedicated to the cause, Betelgeuse kept at her with jackhammering thrusts until she tensed with orgasm and _screamed_ it for him, giving a name to the one who owned her, the one who was responsible for all her pain and pleasure. _It wasn't enough._ Growling, lost to a baser, barbaric brand of possessiveness, he pulled her prone, still-climaxing form up against him until slim pale legs wrapped around his waist and she was seated firmly on his invading thickness. One meaty hook grabbed on to her ass cheek for stability while the other tangled in her hair and yanked painfully, exposing her neck to his grimy teeth.

Gravity was on his side here, dropping her down on him until the thick base of his manhood stretched her tight little pussy painfully, bringing a deeper facet of ache to the pretty noises she was making. When she appeared as though she was ready to cum for him again, he proceeded to do something that he never had before. He rolled over, laid back, and let Lydia ride his cock unencumbered by his forceful manhandling. _This was new._

Lydia was jolted by the change, big honey eyes large with confusion as she stared down at him, tiny hands curled up in his wealth of rotting chest hair. With a grunt and a meaningful squeeze of her hips, he thrust up and pulled down, giving very clear instruction on what he wanted her to do.

_Okay. She could do this._ She'd had more practice now. Slow and imperfect, she drew up until he was almost pulled from her slick, clenching passage, only for the monster beneath her to growl and take over again, dragging her down until he was anchored balls deep and a lovely scream filled the arboretum. "BETELGEUSE!"

That was more like it.

* * *

_**Betelgeuse's P.O.V.**_

She was a good girl, really, his Lyds. He just distinctly enjoyed giving her a hard time, _especially_ when jealousy hit. He couldn't help it. It was just that … he'd been through _hell_ getting this little happy scenario set up, and _everyone else_ seemed dedicated and hellbent to ruin it for him. This wasn't surprising considering the nature of the Neitherworld, but it didn't help the precarious little slice of happiness he'd carved bloodily into the breastbone of the place for himself with a one Lydia Deetz.

So it was only expected that he throw a giant, bizarre tantrum about it, redirecting his frustration on his helpless wife. He'd be more worried if he didn't know how easy Lydia had become to accepting him, letting him manipulate her, how much of a steady grip he had on the sweet flesh of her throat, proverbially. He didn't deserve her, and it was _all the more important_ for him to keep her under his control, lest someone expose the roach to the light in the kitchen and sends him scurrying.

She _loves_ him. It's a sickness that he's fully prepared to plunder just as he is doing now. He growls and purrs encouragement to her as he takes full advantage of her body _while he can._ Everything seems so fleeting, the sands of time shifting endlessly and yet so rapidly, that it was imperative he make the most of it. Scare everyone else off. Scare Lydia into his brand of willing compliance. Secure his position as king of his own crap-heap. But, again, he's an _addict_ too. Animalistically he stretches her, pulls at her, demands of her, unable to get enough of her living, breathing flesh.

And then of course, as if to _test_ her, he lets go. Normally so fevered to conquer, to claim, _to force his way in,_ he's going to let Lydia do a little _work_ for a change. Just enough, though, enough to be assured that she's eager enough. She almost makes it one thrust in before he yanks her flat against him, her ass squeezed to his thighs, and a monstrous grin splits his lips as she finally screams _just for him._ No more other names in the night. Just his. _As it should be._

Her orgasm triggers his own, and he cums hard inside of Lydia, gritting her name in a pleasured hiss out of his teeth as her depths are drenched anew in his sticky seed. Slumping underneath her with a final grumble, his wiry muscles relaxed, he huffs. Reaching up, he runs a thumb along Lydia's soft, sweat-sheened cheek.

"'S a good girl," he mutters, those jade eyes searching up at her pretty, exhausted face, "I don't want anybody else t'get t'see you like this. Or the way you wrinkle your nose when you think I'm nuts. Once yer gone, I can still smell you after I get t'spend the day with you. Yer the only person I like talkin' to, Lyds… I know I get angry. It's just…" pale, moss-covered hands that seem to be perpetually dirty drift up her milky thighs, "…I have _so much_ t'lose if I lose you, kitten."

* * *

_**Lydia's P.O.V.**_

Almost immediately, the burnt out Lydia melted forward into his awaiting arms and gentle caresses, softened further by honeyed promises delivered in a gravelly baritone. No matter how mean he got, how harshly he fucked her, how much he demanded of her— he was _always_ good to her after. Calloused hands stroked the battered flesh on her hips while he muttered praise intermittent with a half-assed sort of apology. She shifted, and his softening cock slipped from her in a way that made her next breath hitch and hiss. A shower would just have to wait for the morning. Lydia didn't currently have the energy or patience for such trivial things as cleanliness.

"I'm not going anywhere," she promised, slumped across his chest in post-orgasmic bliss, listening as his temporary heartbeat stilled back to the nothing she was accustomed to. Hers continued to pound, needing much more time to calm.

"I don't want anyone else. I love you, Beej. _I'm sorry I was flirting with Vincent._ It wasn't on purpose. He's just… very… _charismatic_." The view of Betelgeuse and Coral Browne getting along swimmingly from the alcoves certainly hadn't helped things. "What was I supposed to do? He's Vincent _freaking_ Price. If Vincent Price wants you to act with him, then _you act with him_. That's just what you do. These aren't my rules."

The disclaimer was added in a teasing rush, punctuated with a little kiss to the line of his jaw in hopes to offset a possible flare in his uncontrollable mood swings. It wasn't _his_ fault. He couldn't help it. He _really did_ just love her that much. However, Lydia was a _trouble magnet_. Unable to keep from teasing him further, she dared to prop herself up on the padding of his chest, drop her expression into a serious deadpan, and ask very sincerely;

"Now that we're _done_, I'm going to need you to do that creepy shapeshifting thing one more time and repeat what he said verbatim._ I can't believe Vincent freaking Price wants to sleep with me!"_


End file.
